"I'm only doin' what I can ... for you," he assured her. "An' I guess it ain't much I can do. I'm kind of a failure at reformin' men, I guess. I want to keep on tryin', though. I,"—he moistened his lips—"I don't like to think of givin' up an' I don't like to think of turnin' him over to you like he is."
She smiled appreciatively, downing her misery for the moment, and hastened to say:
"Don't you think it would be better, if I were there now? You see, I could be with him all the time, watch him, help him over the worst days. It surely wouldn't set him back to see me now."
"And might it not be that living alone with you, away from the things he needs: good care, the comforts he's been brought up to know, the right food...."
So confused was Bayard before the conviction that he must meet this argument, that he proceeded without caution, without thought of the foundation of lies on which his separation of husband and wife rested, he burst out:
"But he has them there! Here, ma'am, he'd been seein' an' hearin' folks, he'd be tempted continually. Out there ... why, ma'am, he don't see nobody, hear nothin'. He couldn't be more comfortable. There ain't a house in Yavapai, not one this side o' Prescott, that's better fixed up. I brought out a bed for him into th' kitchen so 't would be lighter, easier for him to be watched. He ... I have sheets for him an' good beddin'. I got eggs an' fruit an' ..."
The perplexity on her face stopped him.
"But you said, you said it was too rough for a woman, that it wasn't much of a house, that it only had one room, that it ..."
One hand extended, leaning toward him, brows raised, accusing, she sought for explanation and she saw his face flood with flush, saw his chest fill.
"Well, I lied to you," he said, the lines of his body going suddenly lax as he half turned from her. "It ain't rough. It's a pretty fair outfit."