When the last visitor had left and Mrs. Anthon had talked herself into sleepiness from the lack of any conversational opposition, Wilbur prepared to put the lights out as usual.
“Wait a minute, John.” These were the first words she had spoken to him since their conversation before dinner. “I have something to say to you, and I had rather say it here where we meet—on a more formal footing.”
Wilbur, who had seen the card on the table, squared himself in front of the fireplace and prepared to be kind and firm and just.
“I know that you will think what I am going to propose is queer,” she began gently, “and I am afraid that you will think it wrong. But I must, I must do it.”
Wilbur’s face wore a frightened look, as though he feared a confession of deadly sin.
“I want to leave you, to go away somewhere, to Europe probably.”
“What for?”
“Because I am not happy here. I cannot take the interest I had in Chicago or in our affairs, and I am thinking constantly of other things. I am no longer a good wife, I believe.” She had no idea how literally Wilbur would take this admission.
“You don’t mean to say it’s come to that with Erard.” Wilbur’s face assumed a sneer, as an outward reflection of his opinion of Erard. Mrs. Wilbur rose as if suddenly whipped.
“What do you mean? No! you needn’t explain. I understand.” Her manner changed to a contemptuous coolness. “I am sorry that my determination to leave your house should coincide so exactly with your vulgar outbreak over my old friend. No, I shall not leave Chicago with him! Had I thought of doing so, I should probably not have consulted you, though you and my mother have done what you could to goad a woman to that.”