my parent, taking my surprise for ladylike wonder at the construction of her phrase. "But it means everything. You know, Elsie, that the French in every catastrophe that happens, declare that 'cherchez la femme' will explain everything."
"I do not understand you," I said in a dazed way. " Why there is not a soul in our house but the servants and my maid, Marie."
"Perhaps not," said Mrs. Bouverie. "But there are plenty of souls out of your house, my dear, and—according to your story—that is where your husband spends the greater part of his time. His neglect of you is only too clear. He is interested in some other woman, and with her he spends his time. Have I made myself clear?"
She had. I started up, surprised at my own obtuseness and burning to settle this question once and forever. But—no, I could not understand fully.
"If he is interested in some other woman," I asked helplessly, "why did he marry me? He asked me to be his wife. Nobody forced him to do it. I didn't suggest it."
My mother laughed harshly. "I suppose
