are justly accused. ``If Mildred left, I should go, too,''
cried she.

``Go where?'' inquired her husband. ``To the
poorhouse?''

By persistent rubbing in Presbury had succeeded in
making the truth about her poverty and dependence
clear to his wife. She continued to frown and to
look unutterable contempt, but he had silenced her.
He noted this with a sort of satisfaction and went
on:

``If Bill Siddall takes her, you certainly won't go
there. He wouldn't have you. He feels strongly on
the subject of mothers-in-law.''

``Has he been married before?'' asked Mrs. Presbury.

``Twice,'' replied her husband. ``His first wife died.
He divorced the second for unfaithfulness.''

Mildred saw in this painstaking recital of all the
disagreeable and repellent facts about Siddall an effort
further to humiliate her by making it apparent how
desperately off she was, how she could not refuse any
offer, revolting though it might be to her pride and to
her womanly instincts. Doubtless this was in part the
explanation of Presbury's malicious candor. But an
element in that candor was a prudent preparing of the