Dr. Eben stopped short: his face grew stern.
“Hetty,” he said, “do you mean to tell me that you have put my very name away from you all these years?”
Tears came to Hetty's eyes.
“Why, Eben,” she replied, “what else could I do? It would have been absurd to keep my name. Any day it might have been recognized. Don't you see?”
“Yes, I see,” answered Dr. Eben, bitterly. “You are no longer mine, even by name.”
Hetty's tears fell. She was dumb before all resentful words, all passionate outbreaks, from her husband now. All she could say was:
“Oh, Eben! Eben!” Sometimes she added piteously: “I never meant to do wrong; at least, no wrong to you. I thought if there were wrong, it would be only to myself, and on my own head.” When they parted, Dr. Eben said:
“At what hour are you free, Hetty?”
“At six,” she replied. “Will you wait for me at the house? Do not come here.”
“Very well,” he answered; and, making a formal salutation as to a stranger, he turned away.