s to tell this
disgraceful fact broadcast. Mine is, least said, soonest mended. What do
you say, Ina--considering Di and all?"

"Oh, goodness," said Ina, "if we get mixed up with bigamy, we'll never
get away from it. Why, I wouldn't have it told for worlds."

Still in that twisted position, Lulu looked up at her. Her straying
hair, her parted lips, her lifted eyes were singularly pathetic.

"My poor, poor sister!" Ina said. She struck together her little plump
hands. "Oh, Dwight--when I think of it: What have I done--what have _we_
done that I should have a good, kind, loving husband--be so protected,
so loved, when other women.... Darling!" she sobbed, and drew near to
Lulu. "You _know_ how sorry I am--we all are...."

Lulu stood up. The white shawl slipped to the floor. Her hands were
stiffly joined.

"Then," she said, "give me the only thing I've got--that's my pride. My
pride--that he didn't want to get rid of me."

They stared at her. "What about _my_ pride?" Dwight called to her, as
across great distances. "Do you think I want everybody to know my
brother did a thing like that?"

"You can't help that," said Lulu.

"But I want you to help it. I want you to promise me that you won't
shame us like this before all our friends."

"You want me to promise what?"

"I want you--I ask you," Dwight said with an effort, "to promise me that
you will keep this, with us--a family secret."

"No!" Lulu cried. "No. I won't do it! I won't do it! I won't do it!"

It was like some crude chant, knowing only two tones. She threw out her
hands, her wrists long and dark on her blue skirt. "Can't you
understand anything?" she asked. "I've lived here all my life--on your
money. I've not been strong enough to work, they say--well, but I've
been strong enough to be a hired girl in your house--and I've been glad
to pay for my keep.... But there wasn't anything about it I liked.
Nothing about being here that I liked.... Well, then I got a little
something, same as other folks. I thought I was married and I went off
on the train and he bought me things and I saw the different towns. And
then it was all a mistake. I didn't have any of it. I came back here and
went into your kitchen again--I don't know why I came back. I s'pose
because I'm most thirty-four and new things ain't so easy any more--but
what have I got or what'll I ever have? And now you want to put on to me
having folks look at me and think he run off and left me, and ha