eyes—But are you happy, dear?" she asked, with the grave tender speech that he remembered. And momentarily the man forgot the people about them, and the fact that his wife's train was due any minute.
"Happier than I deserve to be, Muriel." His voice had quavered—not ineffectively, it appeared to him.
"That's true, at least," the woman said, as in reflection. "You treated me rather abominably, you know—like an old shoe."
"I am not altogether sorry you take that view of it. For I wouldn't want you to regret—anything—not even that which, to me at least, is very sacred. But there was really nothing else to do save just to let things end. It was as hard," he said, with a continuous flight of imagination, "it was as hard on me as you."
"Sometimes I think it was simply because you were afraid of Leonard. I put that out of my mind, though, always. You see, I like to keep my memories. I have nothing else now, Felix—" She opened the small leather bag she carried,
