"Oh, dear, no! I wish he had been. Our life was one dreadful round of cheerful monotony. I got so tired of the shape of his ears that I could have screamed. Yes, I really think," she mused, "that it was his ears."
Wray examined her with his baby-like stare as though she had been a specimen of ore. There seemed to be no doubt of the fact that she was quite serious.
"I'm really sorry for him. It is—very sad——"
She threw her head back and laughed softly.
"My dear Mr. Wray, your sympathy is touching—he would appreciate it as much as I do—if he had not already married again."
"Married? Here in New York?"
"Oh, yes. They're living within a stone's throw of my house."
"Do you see him?"
"Of course. I dined with them only last week. You see," and she leaned toward him with an air of new confidences, "that's only human. I can't really give up anything I've once possessed. You know, I try not to sell horses that I've liked. I did sell one once, and he turned up one morning in a hired brougham. That taught me a lesson I've never forgotten. Now when they outlive their usefulness I turn them out on my farm in Westchester. Of course, I couldn't do that to Harold, but I did the next best thing. I've satisfied myself that he's properly looked after—and I'm sure he'll reflect credit on his early training."
"And he's happy?"