nk, driven just a tiny bit closer to Gershom, who still shows a
placid exterior to Duncan's slightly contemptuous indifference.

My husband, I'm afraid, was not altogether happy in his own home. In
one way, of course, I can not altogether blame him for that, since his
bigger interests now are outside that home. But I begin to see how
dangerous these long separations can be. Somewhere and at some time,
before too much water runs under the bridges, there will have to be a
readjustment.

I realized that, in fact, as I drove Duncan back to the station last
night, after I'd duly signed the different papers he'd brought for
that purpose. I had a feeling that every chug of the motor was
carrying him further and further out of my life. Heaven knows, I was
willing enough to eat crow. I was ready to bury the hatchet, and bury
it in my own bosom, if need be, rather than see it swinging free to
strike some deeper blow.

"Dinky-Dunk," I said after a particularly long silence between us,
"what is it you want me to do?"

My heart was beating much faster than he could have imagined and I was
grateful for the chance to pretend the road was taking up most of my
attention.

"Do about what?" he none too encouragingly inquired.

"We don't seem to be hitting it off the way we should be," I went on,
speaking as quietly as I was able. "And I want you to tell me where
I'm failing to do my share."

That note of humility from me must have surprised him a little, for we
rode quite a distance without a word.

"What makes you feel that way?" he finally asked.

I found it hard to answer that question. It would never be easy, at
any rate, to answer it as I wanted to.

"Because things can't go on this way forever," I found the courage to
tell him.

"Why not?" he asked. He seemed indifferent again.

"Because they're all wrong," I rather tremulously replied. "Can't you
see they're all wrong?"

"But why do you want them changed?" he asked with a disheartening sort
of impersonality.

"For the sake of the children," I told him. And I could feel the
impatient movement of his body on the car seat beside me.

"The children!" he repeated with acid-drop deliberation. "The
children, of course! It's always the children!"

"You're still their father," I reminded him.

"A sort of honorary president of the family," he amended.

Hope ebbed out of my heart, like air out of a punctured tire.

"Aren't you making it rather hard for me?" I demanded