"It wasn't my affair," he muttered, weakly, but she had left him.
He wandered about alone for a few days until the suspense became intolerable. When he turned up one afternoon in their apartments he found preparations on foot for their departure.
"We're going away?" he asked.
"Yes, to New York."
"Not so fast," he interrupted, bitterly. "We might as well face the matter openly. What's the use of going back there?"
"We can't live here, and besides I shall be wanted there."
"You can't do anything now. Talk sensibly about it. I will not go back."
She looked at him coldly, critically. "I cabled Slocum yesterday, and we must live somehow."
"You—" but she laid her hand on his arm. "It makes no difference now, you know, and it can't be changed. I've done everything."
CHICAGO, August, 1895.