“To me,” continued Buford, “the name is repelling because it suggests sorrows of my own.”
There was a pause. He evidently expected a question which undoubtedly was not going to come from Dominick, who sat fallen together in the arm-chair looking at him with moody ill-humor. There was more hope from Rose, who gazed at the floor but said nothing. Buford was forced to repeat with an unctuous depth of tone, “Suggests sorrows of my own,” and fasten his glance on her, so that, as she raised her eyes, they encountered the commanding encouragement of his.
“Sorrows of your own?” she repeated timidly, but with the expected questioning inflection.
“Yes, my dear Miss Cannon,” returned the actor with a melancholy which was full of a rich, dark enjoyment. “My wife is one in name only.”
There was another pause, and neither of the listeners showing any intention of breaking it, Buford remarked,
“That sorrow is mine.”
“What sorrow?” said Dominick bruskly.
“The sorrow of a deserted man,” returned the actor with now, for the first time, something of the dignity of real feeling in his manner.
“Oh,” the monosyllable was extremely non-committal, but it had an air of finality as though Dominick intended to say no more.
“Has she—er—left you?” said the girl in a low and rather awe-stricken voice.