o do. The existence of such
reports--which lays your conduct as a married woman open to
censure--gives me the right to dictate the terms of our legal
separation. I'm obliged to speak plainly, Ethel. You brought about
the issue, and must abide by the consequences. I've stated my terms
and it's for you to accept or decline them."

Thorne leaned back in his chair and watched the flames eat into the
heart of the hickory logs. He had no doubt of her decision, but he
awaited it courteously. The broken log had burned completely away, and
a little heap of whity-gray ashes lay on each side of the hearth.

Ethel sat and pondered, weighing at full value all the advantages and
disadvantages of the proposal and deciding that the former outweighed
the latter. The object on which she was bent--the thing which appeared
the greatest earthly good, was the divorce. At any cost, she would
obtain _that_, and obtain it as quickly and quietly as possible; no
talk, no exposure, no disagreeable comments. This was the main point,
and to carry it, Ethel Thorne felt herself capable of more than the
surrender of one small child. The separation at worst would only be
partial; she could see the boy every day if she wished--even after her
marriage with Cecil Cumberland. Nesbit had promised, and in all her
experience of him she had never known him break his word. Then she
could retain the little fellow until all these troublesome affairs
should be settled, which would disarm criticism and save appearances,
and appearances _must_ be preserved on account of the Cumberlands.

That a divorced daughter-in-law would be none too welcome in that
stately, old-fashioned family, Mrs. Thorne was well aware. Perhaps it
would be as well to be unhampered by such a forcible reminder of her
former state as the child, while she was winning the Cumberland heart
and softening the Cumberland prejudice. Cecil, she knew already,
regarded the baby with scant favor, and would be unfeignedly rejoiced
to be quit of him. On the whole, Nesbit was behaving well to her. She
had expected far more difficulty, infinitely more bitterness, for, like
the world, she gave her husband credit for the scruples of his father's
faith. Her heart softened toward him a little for the first time in
years--or would have softened, but for the blow he had dealt her
egregious self-love in letting her go so easily.

She signified her acceptance of his proposal in a few brusque,
ungra