She started: it was Addie come home. And the start which she gave was a violent one, for she had forgotten him; and a quick compunction shot through those last flashes. She had forgotten him; and yet time after time she had said to herself that she must speak to him as if he were a man.
She now called to him to come in, for he always looked in on her when he returned from school in the afternoon. And, when she saw him, she felt as if she were waking from a dream. Still the violent emotion continued to throb in her; and she felt that she could not be silent. She began, at once:
"Addie, I have been talking to Papa."
It was impossible for her to go on. Not until he sat down beside her, took her hand in his, did she continue, with difficulty:
"Addie, would it make you very unhappy . . . if . . ."
"If what, Mamma?"
"If we, Papa and I . . . quite quietly, Addie . . . without any bitterness . . . were to separate?"
He started inwardly, but remained outwardly calm. He knew the struggle that was going on in both of them. Had he not constantly heard his father's name mixed up with Marianne's? Did he not know and had not he—he alone, within himself, without even letting his mother notice it—had he not guessed the real reason why Mamma had had a dif-
