ning with
the obvious reason, his youth and her age: But that did not explain it.
"We had no children." That did not explain it! Nor, "I wasn't a good
housekeeper"; nor, "I didn't do things with him ... I didn't skate, and
walk, and joke with him"; nor, "I didn't entertain him. Auntie always
said men must be entertained. I--I am stupid." There was no explanation
in such things; neither dullness nor inefficiency was enough to drive a
man like Maurice Curtis into dishonor or faithlessness! Then came the
real explanation--which jealousy so rarely puts into words: "_I was
selfish._" At first, this bleak truthfulness was only momentary. Almost
immediately she was swept from the noble pain of knowing that Maurice
had been false to himself; swept from the sense of her own share in that
falseness, swept back to the insult to _herself_! Back to self-love.
With this was the fear that if she accused him, if she told him that she
knew he was false to her, if she made him very angry, he would leave
her, and go and live with this woman--who had given him a child ... Yet
every morning when she got up, she would say to herself, "I'll tell him
to-day." And every night when she went to bed, "To-morrow."

Still she did not "have it out with him." Then weeks pushed in between
her and that Sunday afternoon when the resealed telegram had been put on
the hall table. And by and by it was a month, and still she could not
speak. And after a while it was June--June, and the anniversary (which
Maurice happened to forget, and to which Eleanor's suffering love would
not permit her to refer!). By that June day, that marked nine of the
golden fifty years, Eleanor had done what many another sad and injured
woman has done--dug a grave in her heart, and buried Trust and Pride in
it; and then watched the grave night and day. Sometimes, as she watched,
her thought was: "If he would tell me the truth, even now, I would
forgive him. It is his living a lie, every day, every minute, that I
can't bear!" Then she would look at Maurice--sitting at the piano,
perhaps, playing dreamily, or standing up in front of the fireplace
filling his pipe, and poking old Bingo with his foot and telling him he
was getting too fat; "You're 'losin' your figger,' Bingo!" Eleanor,
looking and listening, would say to herself, "Is he thinking of Mrs.
Dale, _now_?" And all day long, when she was alone (watching the grave),
she would think: "Where is he _now_? Is he with her? Oh, I thin