Whether he "looked about," or made any effort to obtain a position, Helen had no means of knowing. But weeks passed, and he was still idle, having done absolutely nothing during that time for the provision of his family. He was sullen and disagreeable when at home, and resented all inquiries regarding his movements. Thus the husband and wife could only drift farther and farther apart; for Helen was becoming both discouraged and indignant in view of John's increasing apathy and neglect, which seemed to imply that he felt no personal responsibility and experienced no moral discomfort in allowing her to supply all the needs of the household indefinitely.
Dorothy was now fourteen years of age, a very bright, attractive girl. She was keenly observant of what was going on around her, and, as she not infrequently was a sufferer from the inharmony pervading her home, she was beginning to realize that something was very wrong between her father and mother. Helen, however, never encouraged either comments or questions from her, and always evaded any reference to the strained relations between her husband and herself.
But matters continued to grow worse, and were finally brought to a climax one day when Dorothy burst in upon her, on returning from school, in a state of great excitement, her face crimson from shame, her eyes flashing with anger.
"Mamma, what will you say?" she passionately exclaimed. "I saw papa, just now, riding in an auto with Marie Duncan, that opera singer who has been singing at the Grand Theater all winter. They were laughing, and joking, and having a great time together. Grace Winthrop was with me, and I was so mortified I thought I'd die!"
Helen Hungerford lifted an ashen face to the speaker.
"Dorothy, are you sure?" she gasped, the startled throbbing of her heart making her voice almost inaudible.
"Of course I am sure!" was the positive reply. "There were so many teams in the street the auto had to slow down as it passed the car we were in, and papa saw us, and got awful red in the face. He nodded to us, but I just looked him straight back in the eye—I wouldn't notice him. Mamma, what makes him do such horrid things? Why can't he be nice, like other gentlemen? Oh, I am so ashamed! What will Grace think? What will everybody think?" she concluded wildly.
"Hush, Dorrie, dear; it can do no good to get so excited over it," said Helen, her own lips quivering painfully as she folded the trembling girl in her arms and kissed her tenderly.
Dorothy convulsively returned her embrace; then threw herself in a torrent of tears upon the couch beside which her mother had been sitting when she came in.
Helen allowed her to weep unrestrained, believing that the storm would soonest spend itself in that way. She sat beside her, white-faced, heavy-hearted, and tried to confront the situation.