“What good would that do?”
“Fancy if we had lost the boy! Think of the sacrifices we have made for him, and they would have been useless.”
“Have you made any sacrifices, Gregorio?”
The question was quietly asked, but there was a ring of irony in the sound of the voice, and Gregorio, to shun his wife’s gaze, moved into the friendly shadows. For some minutes he did not answer. At length, with a nervous laugh, he replied:
“Of course. We have both made sacrifices, great sacrifices.”
“It is odd,” pursued Xantippe, gently, as if speaking to herself, “that you should so flatter yourself. You professed to care for me once; you only regard me now as a slave to earn money for you.”
“It is for our son’s sake.”
“Is it for our son’s sake also that you sit with Madam Marx, that you drink her wine, that you kiss her?”
Gregorio could not answer. He felt it were useless to try and explain, though the reason seemed to him clear enough.
“I am glad to have the chance,” continued Xantippe, “of talking to you, for we may now understand each other. I have made the greatest sacrifice, and because it was for our son’s sake I forgave you. I wept, but, as I wept, I said, ‘It is hell for Gregorio too.’ But when I looked from the window this afternoon I knew it was not hell for you. I knew you did not care what became of me. It was pleasant for you to send me away to make money while you drank and kissed at the Penny-farthing Shop. I came suddenly to know that the man had spoken truth.”