“And haven’t you bought any farm?”
“My wife bought a farm, over a year ago—because we wanted to live in the country!”
“But then,” gasped Thyrsis—“how dare they?”
“They dare anything with me!” cried the other. “Anything!”
“And have you no redress?”
“Redress? What redress?”
He went on to tell Thyrsis what had happened. He and Mrs. Darrell had gone down to the farm to see about getting it ready, and a woman had come, representing that she wished to write a magazine article about “the country-homes of literary Americans”. Upon this pretext she had secured a photograph of the place, and of Darrell, and of his wife and child. She had even attempted to secure a photograph of his wife’s aged mother, who lived with her, and who was involved in the affair because the money belonged to her. Then the woman had gone away—and a couple of weeks later had come this!
“And I thought they were through with us!” Darrell whispered, with a shudder. “I thought it was all over!”
He sat in a chair, with his face hid in his arms. Thyrsis put his hand upon his shoulder, and the man caught it. “Listen,” he exclaimed. “You can see this thing from the outside, you know the literary world. Do you think that I can ever rise above this? Is there any use in trying?”
“How do you mean?” Thyrsis asked, perplexed.