seeing one
another," I concluded haltingly.

"She is finer than either of us, Hugh,--far finer."

I did not relish this statement.

"She's fine, I admit. But I can't see how under the circumstances any of
us could have acted differently." And Nancy not replying, I continued:
"She has made up her mind to go,--I suppose I could prevent it by taking
extreme measures,--but what good would it do? Isn't it, after all, the
most sensible, the only way out of a situation that has become
impossible? Times have changed, Nancy, and you yourself have been the
first to admit it. Marriage is no longer what it was, and people are
coming to look upon it more sensibly. In order to perpetuate the
institution, as it was, segregation, insulation, was the only course. Men
segregated their wives, women their husbands,--the only logical method of
procedure, but it limited the individual. Our mothers and fathers thought
it scandalous if husband or wife paid visits alone. It wasn't done. But
our modern life has changed all that. A marriage, to be a marriage,
should be proof against disturbing influences, should leave the
individuals free; the binding element should be love, not the force of an
imposed authority. You seemed to agree to all this."

"Yes, I know," she admitted. "But I cannot think that happiness will ever
grow out of unhappiness."

"But Maude will not be unhappy," I insisted. "She will be happier, far
happier, now that she has taken the step."

"Oh, I wish I thought so," Nancy exclaimed. "Hugh, you always believe
what you want to believe. And the children. How can you bear to part with
them?"

I was torn, I had a miserable sense of inadequacy.

"I shall miss them," I said. "I have never really appreciated them. I
admit I don't deserve to have them, and I am willing to give them up for
you, for Maude..."

We had made one of our favourite drives among the hills on the far side
of the Ashuela, and at six were back at Nancy's house. I did not go in,
but walked slowly homeward up Grant Avenue. It had been a trying
afternoon. I had not expected, indeed, that Nancy would have rejoiced,
but her attitude, her silences, betraying, as they did, compunctions,
seemed to threaten our future happiness.

XXII.

One evening two or three days later I returned from the office to gaze up
at my house, to realize suddenly that it would be impossible for me to
live there, in those great, empty rooms, alone; and I told Maude that I
wo