Eugene turned his head away in disgust—wearily—sick of their melodramatic appeals. This was the last rôle Angela should have played. It was the most ineffectual, the least appropriate at the moment. It was dramatic, striking, but totally ineffective under the circumstances.
"It's useless acting in that way to me, Angela," he said. "I'm no longer to be moved in that way by you. All marital affection between us is dead—terribly so. Why plead to me with something that has no appeal. I can't help it. It's dead. Now what are we going to do about it?"
Once more Angela turned wearily. Although she was nerve worn and despairing, she was still fascinated by the tragedy which was being played out under her eyes. Would nothing make him see?
They went their separate ways for the night, and the next day he was at his desk again. Word came from Suzanne that she was still in Lenox, and then that her mother had gone to Boston for a day or two on a visit. The fifth day Colfax stepped into his office, and, hailing him pleasantly, sat down.
"Well, how are things with you, old man?" he asked.
"Oh, about the same," said Eugene. "I can't complain."
"Everything going all right with you?"
"Yes, moderately so."
"People don't usually butt in on you here when I'm here, do they?" he asked curiously.
"I've given orders against anything like that, but I'll make it doubly sure in this case," said Eugene, alert at once. Could Colfax be going to talk to him about anything in connection with his case? He paled a little.