At the Maitland house, Howard almost lifted his little wife out of the car; he was quivering with pain at her pain—at the thought that her ears had heard the moans of Life, that her eyes had seen its filth and horror; he was so angry at Frederica that he could not trust himself even to look at her. Of course he made no farewells. He closed the door of the limousine with a bang, and said, through the open window:
"Mr. Weston, do anything, anything! so that Laura won't be dragged into it. Any amount of money, of course! And the newspapers—good Lord! Can we fix them?"
"I'll see what can be done," Weston said; and the car spun away.
Frederica turned a bewildered face upon him. She stammered a little:
"He didn't"—her voice fell to an astonished whisper—"understand."
They scarcely spoke until they reached the Payton house; it was dusk when they went up the steps together and rung the front-door bell. ("I am coming in to explain things to your mother," he said, quietly.) But as they stood waiting for the door to be opened, Frederica, looking at him with miserable eyes, made a gesture of finality.
"I never knew him," she said.
As they heard the feet of the parlor-maid coming through the hall, she gripped his arm with her trembling hand:
"Arthur," she said, in a whisper; "just think! I asked—I asked him to marry me. And this is what he is!"