tumult, and she wished to be alone. Mart irritated
her. She refused to talk to him about the play or the dinner, and,
turning him over to Lucius, went at once to her own bed. Thus far she
had not attempted to closely analyze her relationship to Marshall Haney.
He had been to her a good friend rather than a husband, a companion who
needed her, and who had given her everything she asked for. Keenly
forward, almost precocious on the calculative side, she had remained
singularly untroubled on the emotional side. She knew that certain
problems of sex existed in the world, and she was only mentally aware of
temptations--she had never really felt them. Now all at once her whole
nature awoke. Her mind engaged a legion of vaguely defined enemies. Out
of the shadow stepped words of no weight, of no significance hitherto,
encircling her, panoplied with meaning. The half-heard comment of the
camp, the dimly perceived gossip of the Springs, the flattering looks of
the artists--all helped her to see herself as she was: a handsome young
girl, like that on the stage, married to a crippled middle-aged man of
evil history.

"But he is good to me," she argued against her new self. "I was poor,
and he has made me rich; and all I've done is to nurse him and keep
house for him." With this thought came a realization that she had never
been a full and complete wife to him. And with a flush of shame and
repulsion she added: "And now I never can be. No matter if he were to
become as straight, as strong, and as handsome as he was in those days,
I cannot love him as a wife should."

Once having admitted this feeling of repulsion, once having clearly
perceived the vast distance between herself and her husband, the
repulsion deepened, the separating space widened. He seemed ten years
older as they met next morning, and his face was heavy and his frame
lax. Her pity had not lessened, but it was mixed now with a qualifying
emotion which she had not yet acknowledged to be disgust. His skin was
waxy white and his jowls drooping. "I'm not at all up to the work," he
said, with a return of his humor. "'Tis a killing pace we've struck,
Bertie, and the old man must take the flag if you keep it up."

"I don't intend to keep it up," she answered, shortly. "I think we'd
better go home." At the word "home" a little thrill went through her. It
was so bright and big and desirable, that mansion under the purple
peaks.

"No; I must go trail up me old dad, and le