“Come, come, my dear; you know that I love you and that I am faithful to you. But such words and scenes as these may destroy the tenderest love at last. Words, even, are deeds.”
“How philosophical! Quite like one of the epigrams of your chum, Mark Overman, of whose cruel tongue you’re so fond. I wonder you don’t make Mr. Overman a deacon in the new order of your church.”
Gordon sank back into the chair and thoughtfully shaded his brow with his hand, his face drawn into deep lines of weariness.
When she saw the look of pain in his face her eyes softened.
“What I fear of you, Frank, is not your intention, but your performance. You mean well, but you never could resist a pretty woman.”
“In a sense, no. If I could, I never would have married.”
The faintest suggestion of a smile played about her eyes and then faded.
“I wonder what pretty speeches you said to the stranger to-night? You have such charming manners with a woman.”
He looked at her appealingly and she stared at him without reply.
“For God’s sake, Ruth, end this scene. If you only knew how tired I am to-night—tired in body, in heart and soul. I think the past week has been the most trying of my whole life. It opened with a newspaper attack on me inspired by Van Meter. You know how sensitive I am to such criticism.