“Well, in order to simplify matters, and to make it easier for you, should you decide to assist your husband to a solution of this very difficult situation—frankly, in case you might possibly decide to leave on your own account, and maintain a separate establishment of your own I am delighted to say that—ah—any sum, say—ah—”
Jennie rose and walked dazedly to one of the windows, clasping her hands as she went. Mr. O’Brien rose also.
“Well, be that as it may. In the event of your deciding to end the connection it has been suggested that any reasonable sum you might name, fifty, seventy-five, a hundred thousand dollars”—Mr. O’Brien was feeling very generous toward her—“would be gladly set aside for your benefit—put in trust, as it were, so that you would have it whenever you needed it. You would never want for anything.”
“Please don’t,” said Jennie, hurt beyond the power to express herself, unable mentally and physically to listen to another word. “Please don’t say any more. Please go away. Let me alone now, please. I can go away. I will. It will be arranged. But please don’t talk to me any more, will you?”
“I understand how you feel, Mrs. Kane,” went on Mr. O’Brien, coming to a keen realization of her sufferings. “I know exactly, believe me. I have said all I intend to say. It has been very hard for me to do this—very hard. I regret the necessity. You have my card. Please note the name. I will come any time you suggest, or you can write me. I will not detain you any longer. I am sorry. I hope you will see fit to say nothing to your husband of my visit—it will be advisable that you should keep your own counsel in the matter. I value his friendship very highly, and I am sincerely sorry.”
Jennie only stared at the floor.
Mr. O’Brien went out into the hall to get his coat. Jennie touched the electric button to summon the maid, and Jeannette came. Jennie went back into the library, and Mr. O’Brien paced briskly down the front walk. When she was really alone she put her doubled hands to her chin, and stared at the floor, the queer design of the silken Turkish rug resolving itself into some curious picture. She saw herself in a small cottage somewhere, alone with Vesta; she saw Lester living in another world, and beside him Mrs. Gerald. She saw this house vacant, and then a long stretch of time, and then—
“Oh,” she sighed, choking back a desire to cry. With her hands she brushed away a hot tear from each eye. Then she got up.
“It must be,” she said to herself in thought. “It must be. It should have been so long ago.” And then—“Oh, thank God that papa is dead! Anyhow, he did not live to see this.”