you--tried to
make our sorrow a common one, tried to make you realize that I needed
your company and sympathy to save me from the thoughts which seemed to
be wearing away my very life. A dog could not more mutely have shown
its craving for pity and companionship than I did; but the more I
sought you out the more the desire seemed to grow upon you to nurse
your own sorrow alone. At last it got so (you _must_ remember) that I
saw you only at our meals, which you ate almost in silence. The
continued quiet of the house, and the company of my own sad thoughts
and longings for him, finally grew more than I could bear, and so,
after a year of suffering and solitude in this house, I broke down and
tried to forget by accepting social invitations. I had, of course, to
go out alone; you refused to go with me. So now I have humiliated
myself to tell you the truth, and you can judge whether I am heartless
or not; whether I truly loved my boy or not; and who is to blame if I
am now heartless."

She paused suddenly before him and said, in a firm, decisive voice:
"Until I heard your words to-night, my heart had not wholly hardened
toward you, but now the little affection I had left for you has
entirely gone. Never could a woman have been more disappointed in a
man than I have been in you; the idol I set up has been broken into a
thousand fragments. In adversity, when your manliness should have
stood out true and bright, it warped and has grown to be a pitiable
thing. Your life is now so narrow and morbid that you have but little
sense of justice left, as is shown by your throwing upon me all the
blame for the trouble which has been growing up between us, and which
has at last separated us. You have said, Harold, that we must part;
you have spoken truly. You have said, to-night; again you have spoken
truly, for on no consideration shall this roof shelter us again. If
you do not leave to-night, I most surely shall."

Her mood again changed, and she said, with a low laugh, as she paced
the floor with an amused air: "And so I, Mrs. Townsley, am to be a
deserted wife, a 'grass widow,' and all as a punishment for being
heartless, too fond of pleasure, and for not having had any real love
for my only boy! What a dire, dire punishment, Harold!" She glanced
mockingly down at the bowed head of her husband, which was now
pillowed in his hands, and with another burst of musical laughter,
swept gracefully over to the piano, seated herself at it,