“I have. Read that,” and he handed two typewritten sheets to her. “You’ll have to drop that case of yours, and drop it quick, too. Your husband had the nerve to retain me to defend him; and in his counter charges he names me as your co-respondent, and I’m damned if he hasn’t got every move we ever made pat and to the minute. He’s been on to everything.”
He looked up suddenly and a look of suspicion came over his face.
“What is this, a job? Have you two been working me?”
“You contemptible thing,” she whispered, “you have the mind of a street sweeper. How dare you talk to me like that after all our——”
Two tears came into her eyes.
“If I were a man I would fight you and you wouldn’t dare to fight back. You’d run. Do you hear that—you’d run away, because you are a coward. I could make you run away now if I wanted, because you are afraid.”
Then she turned and walked out of the place without even so much as looking behind her, and the man was left with a lot of typewritten sheets clutched in one hand and a stenographer’s note book in the other.
There was never any suit, but if you happen to New York any day during the winter months I’ll show you this couple—Bess who made a little mistake and stepped out to where the daisies grow once or twice—and her husband, who won because he was willing to wait.
It sounds like a romance, I know, but it’s all true, every word of it, for the little stenographer told me the most of it.
