"She's gone out a minute—yes—no—that is—I don't know," returned George incoherently.
Mr. Clay's ready tact came to the rescue and he picked up a program which lay on the table, half hidden by a magazine.
"Tannhauser," he said cheerfully, "with Gadski as Elizabeth! So you went Tuesday night? We wanted to go, but there were no seats left. How early did you get yours?"
"I—ah—yes—Gadski as Elizabeth—that is—rather early. Yes, she was very fine," said George miserably. The stunning revelation had come to him that on Tuesday night—the evening in which he had heard the carriage and the voices, Kitty had been to the opera with another man! And it seemed to fairly paralyse his powers of speech. After a little while the guests politely departed, wondering what in the world was the matter with the Carsons.
"Is he crazy?" asked Mrs. Clay.
"Looks like it," answered her husband concisely.
Carson went up-stairs and searched the closet until he found the pinky-yellow gown with the black velvet bows. He sat down with the pretty fluffy thing in his hands. A delicate odour of violets clung to it—Kitty always had violets around her—and the scent seemed like a haunting memory of a happy past, when he had a wife who wore soft womanly things—who loved to have him kiss her, and never went out nights.
With a sudden rush of tenderness he held the little gown close, but it yielded him no caress in return, and he flung it bitterly aside, feeling as he did so, that he sat among the ashes of a desolate and forsaken home.
He grew white and worn in the days that followed. He knew dimly what a grave might mean, since he felt the hurt of a living loss.