“I’ve been so miserable, Cardy. All these years I have never known a moment’s peace and quietude.”
He revolved slowly and confronted the woman who had been his wife. Her hands outstretched toward him. He did not move, but looked her over gravely. Dolled up, painted, and smelling of half-a-dozen cheap perfumes that strove in vain to subordinate the reek of still stronger waters—she was all that his fancy pictured she would be.
“So it’s you, Blanche,” he said.
“Yes, me—what’s left.” (He nodded at that.) “If you knew, Cardy, what I have gone through—what my conscience has suffered for the way I served you, you would take pity. That’s why——” She made a gesture as though to say, “Behold the wreckage”—“And you—you so young-looking, so handsome, and with a beautiful grown-up daughter! Oh, Cardy, it’s too much to bear. You must forgive me and take me back.”
Sobbing piteously, she fell into his arms.
Eliphalet let her sob for as long as he could hold his breath; then he placed her in a chair and seated himself as far away as possible.
“Need you envy me so acutely?” he said. “You married again, and bore a daughter after you ceased to be my wife.”
“That’s true,” she nodded, dabbing her nose, which sprang to a bright purple at the touch; “but it’s cruel to remind me.”
“Why?” His voice was courteous, but unsympathetic.
“She—Oh, and she was such a pretty, dainty little thing. I can’t speak of her, Cardy. I can’t.”