“It seems to me that we have got along pretty well together, Maude. I have been negligent—I'll admit it. But I'll try to do better in the future. And—if you'll wait a month or so, I'll go to Europe with you, and we'll have a good time.”
She looked at me sadly,—pityingly, I thought.
“No, Hugh, I've thought it all out. You really don't want me. You only say this because you are sorry for me, because you dislike to have your feelings wrung. You needn't be sorry for me, I shall be much happier away from you.”
“Think it over, Maude,” I pleaded. “I shall miss you and the children. I haven't paid much attention to them, either, but I am fond of them, and depend upon them, too.”
She shook her head.
“It's no use, Hugh. I tell you I've thought it all out. You don't care for the children, you were never meant to have any.”
“Aren't you rather severe in your judgments?”
“I don't think so,” she answered. “I'm willing to admit my faults, that I am a failure so far as you are concerned. Your ideas of life and mine are far apart.”
“I suppose,” I exclaimed bitterly, “that you are referring to my professional practices.”
A note of weariness crept into her voice. I might have known that she was near the end of her strength.