“Yes, Ellen, it is your poor, unfortunate husband. Egad, I’m glad to see you.”
It was now over three years since James Barclay and his wife had met. She had never been very happy with him, after the first few months of married life, and she did not know now whether to be glad or sorry she had met him. She had not lost all love for him—wives seldom do under any provocation—but she knew him too well to believe that he had changed materially. He was likely still to prove a disturbing element in her life. Yet she felt a momentary pleasure, lonely as she was, in meeting the man who, ten years before, had captured her affections.
“Are you glad to see me, Ellen?” asked Barclay, in an unusually pleasant tone.
“Yes,” she answered, slowly.
“How are the children? I don’t suppose I should know them.”
“They are well. Jimmy and Mary are going to school. Jimmy sells papers evenings to help me along.”
“How old is the young rascal?”
“Eight years old.”
“Is he a chip of the old block, eh, Ellen?”
“I hope not,” said the woman, heartily. Then, with a half frightened look, she added, “Don’t be offended with me, James, but I don’t want him to follow in your steps.”