"Lorraine, if you want him!"
"I don't know that I want him," she shrugged—"and I don't think he'll have me. Harry Lorraine is a weak, vacillating fool—that's why I left him. If he had the strength of a man—just an ordinary man—he could have saved me from Amherst. He would have taken me from him, at any rate; he could have found us at any time. My mother knew where I was—after the first two weeks."
"I thought as much," Pendleton commented.
"He wrote me three letters—at intervals. In the first, he was coming over to kill Amherst on sight."
"He had the right idea."
"Yes—and I'd have blessed him if he had only done it!" she exclaimed. "But instead he sent a second letter casting me off finally. And then another—that whined and plead and threatened and sneered, and ended by leaving me in doubt what he meant to do. I didn't care, of course, but a woman likes to think of the man she married as strong enough to do something in such a crisis. She wants to respect the man she has left, so she can respect the other man more. And they both failed, Montague, they both failed miserably. Lorraine as a husband was poor enough, but Amherst was—beyond words. I came to despise him. You remember one day at Granger's, when I came in with him; and later I asked you how you liked him—you always spoke plainly to me, I think—and you said, 'He is a mongrel—a vicious mongrel'; and I was indignant, and left you abruptly—remember the episode? Well, I've remembered it many times—for he has shown it. He is a mongrel—a vicious mongrel, Montague. Had Harry Lorraine found us out then and even beaten him, I would have thrown my arms around my husband's neck for very joy. But he didn't. Instead of coming—he wrote!—wrote! Instead of descending as an avengeful Jove he indited epistles! Can you imagine anything more ridiculously absurd?"
"No," said Pendleton, "I can't even imagine it—but different men, different minds, and different methods."
"And Amherst was worse," she went on. "I know that you think I ought to have realized it before—I went off. I didn't—until it was too late. He is too immaculate—too nice—too everything. Most men can wear their clothes and be careful about their personal appearance without seeming to be—without obtruding it on their wives or mistresses. Amherst, I soon discovered, could not. That was the first thing to get on my nerves. Then his—habits began to grow natural and—disgusting. He is only veneered—and the veneer is very thin." She hesitated—flushed. "And he was a—brute.—A miserable brute, Montague—and the break came at last. We had quarrelled, and quarrelled, and quarrelled for months—every time longer and bitterer than the others. That last night it was dreadful, and I ran into another room and locked the door. I would leave him in the morning, I decided. I was at breakfast when he walked in and said:
"'I'm going back to Mrs. Amherst. I advise you to go back to Lorraine, if he will take you. I sail from Cherbourg to-morrow. I have your transportation, if you wish to accompany me to New York.'
"I positively laughed with joy. 'If Mrs. Amherst wants you she is welcome to you, heaven knows!' I answered. 'I'm charmed to be rid of you, nor will I trouble you for the transportation. I prefer henceforth to pay my own way, thank you!'