ds so much of her then? I'd felt that it was the
boy who stood between Sheila and all her old life--her old self."

"Ah, but isn't that just the way Ted has her so utterly--through the
boy?"

Peter shook his head: "There's something I don't understand. I
understand _her_--to the soul! But there's something in her life I
don't understand. I'm sure Ted's good to her. I'm sure they love each
other. But she's not satisfied, Mrs. Caldwell. The trouble is that
she wants to write--and she doesn't. I can't understand why she
doesn't. When Eric was a baby, it was natural enough that she should
give up everything for him; but now it's unreasonable, it's absurd,
that she doesn't take up her work again. And I can't tell her so--well
as I know the value of the gift she's wasting. She isn't frank with
me. I can only talk to her about the matter in metaphors."

"She isn't frank with me either, Peter. But I'm a little more informed
about the situation than you are. Sheila was writing a story when
Eric's nurse, taking advantage of not being overlooked, exposed him to
scarlet fever. That, I'm confident, is somehow responsible for
Sheila's giving up her work."

Peter's face flushed darkly: "Do you think Ted reproached her for that?
Do you think he blamed her?"

"No--I'm sure he didn't. He was terribly, terribly sorry for her. Ted
is capable of generosity at times, Peter--I'm not fond of him for
nothing!--and he was generous then. But of course Sheila reproached
herself. I can imagine what she suffered, and how bitterly she
censured herself. I can imagine, too, that she's been atoning ever
since. It would be so like her to atone with her whole life for a
mistake, an accident. If she had married another man--it wouldn't have
happened."

"The mistake, the accident, wouldn't have happened?"

"Ah, that might have happened in any case. I meant the atonement."

"But," objected Peter, "you said Ted did not blame her. How, then,
could he be responsible?"

"He could let the atonement go on! He isn't a subtle person, but I
believe he's divined that, and let it continue. I knew, before Sheila
married him, that he would not care for her art. I knew that he would
resent any vital interest she might have outside of her marriage. And
knowing this, I've concluded that when her conscience worked along the
line of his own wishes, it was too much for him; he simply couldn't
help taking the advantage circumstances had of