“No—of course!—I forgot—there’s your wife—”
Arteroyd looked at him steadfastly.
“Yes,—there’s my wife. And she is the very reason why—as you say—I shouldn’t care much.”
“Isn’t she good to you, old chap?” queried Dandy sympathetically.
Colonel Arteroyd smiled a trifle sadly.
“Good to me? Oh yes, I suppose so! But—you see—when I married her—I—I loved her. That is what she didn’t understand. When a man loves a woman—really loves her, you know—”
Dandy nodded gravely.
“Well—then, he likes to think of her as something altogether sacred—something removed and different to himself. We don’t want women to be angels—no,—but something very near it. I wanted my wife to love me as I loved her—I wanted to feel that she was proud of me, and that if I could do a good thing at any time, she would be glad. A sort of giving her my laurels, you know, if I got any. Well—I soon found out she never would be glad that way. She wanted everything I couldn’t get. She went in for society,—I hate society. I can’t smile when I’m told to. I can’t tell lies thirteen to the dozen. And unless you can do that sort of thing, society doesn’t want you. Then our little child—a boy—died when he was two. He was a jolly little chap,—he got very fond of me—used to play with my moustache and kiss me with all his little might—” Here Arteroyd paused and put his field glasses up to his eyes. Dandy Ferrers puffed a big blue ring of cigar smoke up into the burning sky and thought it likely that the Colonel was not taking a particularly clear sight for the moment.
“Yes—that ridge is deserted,” resumed Arteroyd coolly—“I thought I saw a moving speck—but I was mistaken. I believe they’ve got no more ammunition up there.”
“Go on with your story,” said Ferrers softly.