“You see I belong to the rejected, Matt.”
He quivered as at a thrust.
“No, you are of the elect, of the saints of this earth.”
Her smile took on the wistfulness of her early portrait. They stood looking at each other in a tender embarrassment.
“Oh, by-the-way, Matt, you will not mind my speaking of her ... she belongs to me a little as well as to you, you know ... I went to see your poor mother before I left for Europe.”
He shuddered.
“Did she recognize you?” he said, in a half-whisper.
She shook her head. Her face was drawn with the pain of the memory. “But she is quite gentle, except when she quotes texts. They give her simple housework to do—it provides a vent for her activity ... marriages are not always happy, you see.” A wan smile flitted across her features. “I shall go to see her again. Poor creature! I forgot her when I called you happy. The thought of her must always sadden you.”
He would not trust his voice to reply. He transferred the photograph to his left hand, and held out the right in silence. She put her hand into his.
“Good-bye, Matt; perhaps forever.”