John, openly riding, in broad daylight, through the streets of the city, with the opera star, betrayed a wantonness that defied all conventionality or decorum. It was an evidence of indifference to public opinion, to his own respectability, and to the notoriety that must reflect upon his family, which showed how thoroughly infatuated he had become.
And in an automobile! Whose car was it? Did it belong to the actress, or was John guilty of the extravagance of hiring it to take the woman about? If so, where did he get the money to pay for it, when he was not supplying a dollar toward his own support or that of his family?
When John Hungerford entered his home that night, late as it was, he found a wan-faced, hollow-eyed woman sitting up for him; yet, despite the serpent sting in her heart, busy at work upon the week's mending.
"Well," he observed, in a half-jocose, half-defiant tone, although a flush of shame swept his face as he met his wife's sad eyes, "I suppose the kid told you?"
"Yes, Dorothy has told me where, and with whom, she saw you this afternoon. John, what does it mean?" Helen gravely returned.
Her manner, as well as his own accusing conscience, angered him, and he swore—another evidence of his degeneration, for, as a rule, he had been a gentleman, rarely allowing himself to use either profane or vulgar language. He had been deeply chagrined, that afternoon, on coming almost face to face with Dorothy and her friend, the daughter of one of San Francisco's highly respected citizens. He had known, of course, that Dorothy would tell her mother, which nettled him still more, and now to be arraigned by Helen, to have her presume to dictate terms to him, as he felt she would do, caused him to lose all control of himself.
"I don't know that I am accountable to you for where I go, or with whom I spend my time," he sullenly replied.
Helen sat erect, her own spirit now thoroughly aroused.
"Yes, you are accountable to me when you compromise the honor of your family—and in the presence of your own child," she said, her blazing eyes looking straight into his; then she added, with quiet but convincing firmness: "And the way we have been living of late cannot go on any longer."
He regarded her with mingled surprise and inquiry. Had the worm turned at last? Had his gentle, loyal, patient wife reached the limit of her endurance? Would she—did she mean that she would leave him? It had never occurred to him that she would take such a stand as this.