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, struck a
few chords; and then, as if driven by sudden impulse, wheeled quickly
round and said: "But the runaway husband shall have something pleasant
to remember the poor deserted wife by in his wanderings. Be sure,
Harold, and always think of me as singing this love-lorn ditty." Again
she laughed, but this time there was a peculiar tremor in her voice
which betrayed, better than anything else could have done, the great