“But Fanny—” she persisted, gently touching his hands that were loosely clasped on his knee.
“Oh, the trouble was that we were never suited to each other. She’s quiet, domestic—a country-town girl, and never fitted into things here. She wanted to sit at home every evening and sew and expected me to wait around for her to drop a spool so I could get excitement out of scrambling for it. And she didn’t like my friends, or doing the things I like. Her idea of having a gay time was to go to the state fair once a year and look at live stock! I think she hated me toward the end.”
“But that other story about her—about another man; she doesn’t look like that sort of woman, Billy.”
He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“That wasn’t in the case at all. The divorce was given for incompatibility. Whatever else there may have been didn’t figure. I made it as easy for her as possible, of course. And I’ve no doubt she was as glad to quit as I was!”
“But you didn’t think—you didn’t honestly believe—”
“Well, I thought she was interested in Manning; and we had some trouble about that. He used to come here a good deal. He was an old friend of mine and his business brought him to town pretty often for a couple of years. He’s a fellow of quiet tastes—just her sort—and I hoped when I got out of the way she’d marry him. I want you to be satisfied about everything, Nan. I tell you everything’s over between Fanny and me.”
She rose and took a turn across the room, paused at the window, glanced out upon the lawn and the strip of woodland beyond. He became impatient as the minutes passed. Then she faced him suddenly.
“It’s no use, Billy,” she said.
He was eagerly protesting when Mrs. Kinney appeared at the door.