"You are never to know, Abbott."
"Very well—so be it. But I don't believe Mr. Gregory ever did very wrong—he is too good a man."
"Isn't he daily breaking his wife's heart?" retorted Fran with a curl of the lip. "I call that murder."
"But still!—But I can't think he realizes it."
"Then," said Fran satirically, "we'll just call it manslaughter. When I think of his wife's meek patient face—don't you recall that look in her eyes of the wounded deer—and the thousands of times you've seen those two together, at church, on the street, in the library— everywhere…seeing only each other, leaning closer, smiling deeper— as if doing good meant getting close—Oh, Abbott, you know what I mean—don't you, don't you?"
"Yes!" cried Abbott sharply. "Fran, you are right. I have been—all of us have been—clinging to appearances. Yes, I know what you mean."
"You'll keep Bob Clinton from telling that secret, won't you? He's to go to-night, on the long journey—to-night, after the board meeting. It'll take him three or four days. Then he'll come back…"
"But he'll never tell the secret," Abbott declared. His mouth closed as by a spring.
Fran snatched up the whip, and leaned over as if to lash the empty shafts. She had suddenly become the child again. "We must drive out of Sure-Enough Country, now. Time to get back to the Make-Believe World. You know it isn't best to stay long in high altitudes. I've been pretty high—I feel like I've been breathing pretty close to—heaven." She stood up, and the lap-robe fell about her like green waves from which springs a laughing nymph.
Abbott still felt stunned. The crash of an ideal arouses the echo—"Is there no truth in the world?" But yes—Fran was here, Fran the adorable.