“My husband can't see me at all.”
“Oh, him!” Jim growled. “What's he up to now?”
“I don't know,” said Charity. “I hardly ever see him. He's chucked me for good.”
Jim studied her with idolatry and with the intolerant ferocity of a priest for the indifferent or the skeptical. The idol made her plaint to her solitary worshiper.
“I'm horribly lonely, Jim. I don't go anywhere, meet anybody, do anything but mope. Nobody comes to see me or take me out. Even you kept away from me till I had to send for you.”
“You ordered me off the premises in Newport, if you remember.”
“Yes, I did, but I didn't realize that I was mistreating the only admirer I had.”
This was rather startling in its possible implications. It scared Dyckman. He gazed at her until her eyes met his. There was something in them that made him look away. Then he heard the gasp of a little sob, and she began to cry.
“Why, Charity!” he said. “Why, Charity Coe!”
She smiled at the pet name and the tenderness in his voice, and her tears stopped.