"Well, then, since you're the one wants it, since you're forcing me to
it--I'll end your suspense, Millie. Yes. Let me go, Millie. There's no use
trying to keep life in something that's dead. Let me go."

She stood looking at him, cheeks cased in palms, and her sagging
eye-sockets seeming to darken, even as she stared.

"You--her--"

"It happens every day, Millie. Man and woman grow apart, that's all. Your
own son is man enough to understand that. Nobody to blame. Just happens."

"Harry--you mean--"

"Aw, now, Millie, it's no easier for me to say than for you to listen. I'd
sooner cut off my right hand than put it up to you. Been putting it off all
these months. If you hadn't nagged--led up to it, I'd have stuck it out
somehow and made things miserable for both of us. It's just as well you
brought it up. I--Life's life, Millie, and what you going to do about it?"

A sound escaped her like the rising moan of a gale up a flue; then she
sat down against trembling that seized her and sent ripples along the
iridescent sequins.

"Harry--Alma Zitelle--you mean--Harry?"

"Now what's the use going into all that, Millie? What's the difference who
I mean? It happened."