"Dr. King, his father--hurt him. Yes; hurt a little baby, eight
months and twelve days old. He died seven weeks later."
William drew in his breath; he found no words.
"That was twelve years ago, but I can't seem to--to get over it," she
said with a sort of gasp.
"But how--" Dr. King began.
"Oh, he was not himself. He was--happy, I believe you call it
'happy'?"
"How did you bear it!"
"I didn't bear it I suppose. I never have borne it!"
"Did he repent before he died?" William King said passionately.
"Before he--?" Her voice suddenly shook; she made elaborate pretence
of calmness, fastening her gloves and looking at them critically; then
she said: "Yes, Dr. King; he repented. He repented!"
"If there ever was excuse for divorce, you had it!"
"You don't think there ever is?" she asked absently.
"No," William said. "I suppose you'll think I'm very old-fashioned,
but I don't, unless--" he stopped short; he could not have put his
qualifying thought into words to any woman, especially not to this
woman, so like a girl in spite of her thirty-odd years. "You see," he
said, awkwardly, "it's such an unusual thing. It never happened in Old
Chester; why, I don't believe I ever saw a--a divorced person in my
life!"
"Well," she said, "anyhow, I didn't get a divorce."
"Mrs. Richie!" he said, blushing to his temples, "you didn't think I
thought of such a thing?"
But it was plain that she regretted her confidence; she rose with the
evident purpose of changing the subject.
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