remained; and for the first time in his memory he saw her wilt and collapse.
"You see, Ma, there can't be any doubt. They've gone off together."
Suddenly she seemed to make a great effort. She sat up again and said bitterly, "I always thought something like this would happen. She was always flighty . . . I discovered that when she lived here. She wasn't any good as a wife or as a mother. She wouldn't nurse her own children. No . . . I think, maybe, you're well rid of her . . . the brazen little slut."
"Don't say that, Ma. Whatever has happened is our fault. We drove her to it." His words were gentle enough; it was his voice that was hard as flint.
"What do you mean? How can you accuse me?"
"We treated her like dirt . . . and it wasn't her fault. In some ways she's better than either of us."
She looked at him suddenly. "You're not planning to take her back if she comes running home with her tail between her legs?"
"I don't know . . . I have a feeling that she'll never come back."
"Leaving her children without a thought!"
"I don't suppose she left them without a thought . . . but sometimes a person can be so unhappy that he only wants to die. I know . . . I've been like that. Besides, she never wanted the children any more than I wanted them."
"How can you say such a wicked thing!"
His face looked thin and pinched and white. The water, all unnoticed, had formed a pool about his feet on the immaculate carpet of Emma's hall. He was
