Littleton's expression as she talked had changed from astonishment to
anger, and from anger to a sternness which gave his words of response
the effect of calm and final decision. "You have said so many things
with which I do not agree, and which I should have to dispute, that I
will not attempt to argue with you concerning them. One thing is clear,
both of us have made a horrible mistake. Each has misunderstood the
other. You are dissatisfied with me; I realize suddenly that you are
utterly different from what I supposed. I am overwhelmed, but your words
make plain many things which have distressed and puzzled me." He paused
as though in spite of the certainty of his tone, he hoped that she would
see fit to deny his conclusions. "We have made a mistake and we shall
both be miserable--that must needs be--but we must consider whether
there is any method by which we can be less unhappy. What would you like
to have me do, Selma? We have no children, thank heaven! Would it be
more agreeable to live apart from me and receive support? A divorce does
not seem necessary. Besides, our misconception of each other would
not be a legal cause."

Selma flushed at the reference to divorce. Littleton's sad, simple
statement wore on the surface no sign of a design to hark back to her
experience with her first husband, yet she divined that it must be in
his thoughts and she resented the recurrence. Moreover, separation,
certainly for the present, went beyond her purpose.

"I have no wish for divorce or separation. I see no reason why we should
not continue to live as we are," she answered. "To separate would cause
scandal. It is not necessary that people should know we have made a
mistake. I shall merely feel more free now to live my own life--and
there is no telling that you may not some day see things from my point
of view and sympathize with me more." She uttered the last words with a
mixture of pathos and bright solicitation.

Littleton shook his head. "I agree with you that to go on as we are is
our best course. As you say, we ought, if possible, to keep the
knowledge of our sorrow to ourselves. God knows that I wish I could hope
that our life could ever be as it was before. Too many things have
become plain to me in the last half-hour to make that possible. I could
never learn to accept or sympathize with your point of view. There can
be no half-love with me, Selma. It is my nature to be frank, and as you
are fond of saying, that