Dominick remembered, but it seemed imperfectly, for he said in a doubtful tone, which had more than a suggestion of questioning,
“She—er—she died?”
“No,” said the other, “she did not die. I lost her in a way that I think was more painful than death. She left me, voluntarily, of her own free will.”
“Oh, of course,” said the young man hastily. “I remember perfectly, one day by the sitting-room fire. I remember it all as clearly as possible now.”
“That was the time—the only time I mentioned the subject to you. On another occasion I spoke to that lovely and agreeable young lady, Miss Cannon, on the matter, and told her more fully of my domestic sorrows. But to you I made but that one allusion. May I now, more at length, tell you of the misfortunes—I may say tragedy—of my married life?”
Dominick, mystified, nodded his head. He could not imagine why Buford should come to him at this particular moment and in this particularly theatrical manner with the history of his domestic troubles. But he was undeniably interested, and feeling himself more than ever like a character in a play, said,
“Go on. Tell me anything you like. And if in any way I can be of use to you, I’ll be only too happy to do it.”
Looking at the carpet, a heat of inward excitement showing through the professional pomposity of his manner, Buford began slowly and solemnly:
“I’ll go back to seven years ago, when I was in Chicago. Previous to that, Mr. Ryan, I will tell you in confidence I had been a preacher, a Methodist, of good reputation, though, I am fain to confess, of small standing in the church. I left that esteemed body as I felt there were certain tenets of the faith I could not hold to. I am nothing if not honest, and I was too honest to preach doctrines with all of which I could not agree. I left the church as a pastor though I have never deserted it as a disciple, and have striven to live up to its standards.”
He paused, and Dominick, feeling that he spoke sincerely, said,