His companion made no reply to this acrid fling, but stood in an attitude of quiet dignity, awaiting any further suggestions he might have to offer.
But, having gained his main point—her consent to a legal separation—the man was anxious to close the interview and escape from a situation that was becoming exceedingly uncomfortable for him. At the same time, he found it no easy matter to bring the interview to a close and take final leave of the wife whom he was repudiating.
"Well, Helen," he finally observed, assuming a masterful tone to cover his increasing embarrassment, "I may have more to say regarding Dorothy, later on—we will not discuss the matter further at present. Now, I am going—unless you have something else you wish to say to me."
Helen Hungerford shivered slightly at these last words, and grew marble white.
Then she suddenly moved a step or two nearer to him, and lifted her beautiful face to him, a solemn light in her large gray eyes.
"Yes, I have something else I would like to say to you, John," she said, her voice growing tremulous for the first time during their interview. "This separation is, as you know, of your own seeking, not mine. A so-called divorce, though sanctioned a thousand times by misnamed law, means nothing to me. When I married you I pledged myself to you until death should part us, and I would have held fast to my vows until my latest breath. I may have made mistakes during the years we have lived together, but you well know that whenever I have taken a stand against your wishes it has always been for conscience's sake. I have honestly tried to be a faithful wife—a true helpmeet, and a wise mother. I have freely given you the very best there was in me to give. Now, at your decree, we are to part. I make no contest—I hurl no reproaches—I simply submit. But I have one last plea to make: I beg of you not to ruin your future in the way you are contemplating—you know what I mean—for life is worthless without an honored name, without the respect of your fellow men, and, above all, without self-respect. You have rare talent—talent that would lift you high upon the ladder of fame and success, if you would cease to live an aimless, barren existence. For your own sake, I pray you will not longer pervert it. That is all. Good-by, John; I hear Dorothy coming, and you may have something you would like to say before you go."
She slipped quietly between the portières near which she had been standing, and was gone as a door opened to admit a bright, winsome lassie of about fifteen years.
Dorothy Hungerford strongly resembled her mother. She was formed like her; she had the same pure complexion, the same large, clear gray eyes and wealth of reddish-brown hair, which hung in a massive braid—like a rope of plaited satin—between her shoulders, and was tied at the end with a great bow of blue ribbon.
The girl paused abruptly upon the threshold, and flushed a startled crimson as her glance fell upon her father.
"Where—is mamma?" she inquired, in evident confusion.