A Fool There Was

by Porter Emerson Browne

"Most truths hurt," she remarked, smilingly.

"Now," he mumbled, "yes…." And then: "You're satisfied, I hope. She's gone."

"Gone?" It was a pretty inflection—the rising inflection of great surprise. Her eyes, glowing of merriment, belied her lips.

"Gone," he repeated, doggedly. "Gone, and taken the child—my child—our child—with her."

She glided across to where he sat; she leaned over him.

"And you're sorry, I suppose," she asked, mockingly. "Heart-broken!"

"Yes, by God! I am!" he cried, from the soul.

There came from her lips a peal of merry, musical laughter.

"The man of it! Every man wants two women—one to love, and one to respect; one to caress, the other to honor; one to please himself, the other to please his friends. And you're no different from the rest that I have known."

He looked up at her, eye laden of hate, and scorn.