“Have you heard of your wife again?” I asked.
He displayed a pitiful agitation. “I am afraid you will think ill of me,” he said.
“Have you taken her back?” I asked.
“No, sir. I trust I have too much self-respect,” he answered, “and, at least, I was never tempted. She won’t come, she dislikes, she seems to have conceived a positive distaste for me, and yet I was considered an indulgent husband.”
“You are still in relations, then?” I asked.
“I place myself in your hands, Mr. Dodd,” he replied. “The world is very hard; I have found it bitter hard myself—bitter hard to live. How much worse for a woman, and one who has placed herself (by her own misconduct, I am far from denying that) in so unfortunate a position!”
“In short, you support her?” I suggested.
“I cannot deny it. I practically do,” he admitted. “It has been a millstone round my neck. But I think she is grateful. You can see for yourself.”
He handed me a letter in a sprawling, ignorant hand, but written with violet ink on fine, pink paper, with a monogram. It was very foolishly expressed, and I thought (except for a few obvious cajoleries) very heartless and greedy in meaning. The writer said she had been sick, which I disbelieved; declared the last remittance was all gone in doctor’s bills, for which I took the liberty of substituting dress, drink, and monograms; and prayed for an increase, which I could only hope had been denied her.
“I think she is really grateful?” he asked, with some eagerness, as I returned it.