The burning color rushed to her face. She had lived so much in the clouds since the moment when she found that little dead flower in Feathers' coat pocket that Chris' blunt words sounded horribly brutal. Chris, watching her narrowly, saw the sudden quivering of her lips, and his heart smote him.
"Go to bed, Marie Celeste," he said more gently. "It's no use worrying about things to-night."
He cared so little. The thought stung her afresh as she turned away. He would have been quite content to go on in the old, semi- detached fashion, with not a thought for her.
Chris listened to her dragging steps as she went up the stairs. They sounded as if they were already walking away out of his life, he thought, with a little feeling of superstition, and he wondered if the day would ever come when she would cease to belong to him.
He could not imagine his life without Marie Celeste. She had always been there, a willing little figure in the background of things.
All his boyhood and early manhood were studded with pictures in which she had played a part.
She had seemed happy enough when they were first married, or so it had appeared to his blindness. What had happened since to bring about such a change?
He could not believe it was altogether Feathers. He did not believe that his friend was the type of man to seriously interest Marie. Feathers never took women seriously.
He looked at his watch—not yet half-past eleven.
He had not seen Feathers since they parted at the door on Sunday evening, and with sudden impulse he took his hat and went off to Albany Street.