the thing for Mrs.
Belcher's husband to do. People might talk, you know, and they wouldn't
blame me."

"No; they would blame me, and I must go, whether I wish to go or not."

Mrs. Belcher had talked until she could weep, and brushing her eyes she
walked to the window. Mr. Belcher sat still, casting furtive glances at
her, and drumming with his fingers on his knees. When she could
sufficiently command herself, she returned, and said:

"Robert, I have tried to be a good wife to you. I helped you in your
first struggles, and then you were a comfort to me. But your wealth has
changed you, and you know that for ten years I have had no husband. I
have humored your caprices; I have been careful not to cross your will.
I have taken your generous provision, and made myself and my children
what you desired; but I am no more to you than a part of your
establishment. I do not feel that my position is an honorable one. I
wish to God that I had one hope that it would ever become so."

"Well, by-by, Sarah. You'll feel better about it."

Then Mr. Belcher stooped and kissed her forehead, and left her.

That little attention--that one shadow of recognition of the old
relations, that faint show of feeling--went straight to her starving
heart. And then, assuming blame for what seemed, at the moment of
reaction, her unreasonable selfishness, she determined to say no more,
and to take uncomplainingly whatever life her husband might provide for
her.

As for Mr. Belcher, he went off to his library and his cigar with a
wound in his heart. The interview with his wife, while it had excited in
him a certain amount of pity for her, had deepened his pity for himself.
She had ceased to be what she had once been to him; yet his experience
in the city had proved that there were still women in the world who
could excite in him the old passion, and move him to the old
gallantries. It was clearly a case of incipient "incompatibility." It
was "the mistake of a lifetime" just discovered, though she had borne
his children and held his respect for fifteen years. He still felt the
warmth of Mrs. Dillingham's hands within his own, the impression of her
confiding clasp upon his arm, and the magnetic influence of her splendid
presence. Reason as he would, he felt defrauded of his rights; and he
wondered whether any combination of circumstances would ever permit him
to achieve them. As this amounted to wondering whether Mrs. Belcher
would die, he strove t