The marriage was not quite two weeks away. About the time that the ordinary plausible excuses for Norman's neglect, his abstraction, his seeming indifference were exhausted, Josephine's vanity came forward to explain everything to her, all to her own glory. As the elysian hour approached--so vanity assured her--the man who loved her as her complex soul and many physical and social advantages deserved was overcome with that shy terror of which she had read in the poets and the novelists. A large income, fashionable attire and surroundings, a carriage and a maid--these things gave a woman a subtle and superior intellect and soul. How?
Why? No one knew. But everyone admitted, indeed saw, the truth. Further, these beings--these great ladies--according to all the accredited poets, novelists, and other final authorities upon life--always inspired the most awed and worshipful and diffident feelings in their lovers. Therefore, she--the great lady--was getting but her due. She would have liked something else --something common and human--much better. But, having always led her life as the conventions dictated, never as the common human heart yearned, she had no keen sense of dissatisfaction to rouse her to revolt and to question. Also, she was breathlessly busy with trousseau and the other arrangements for the grand wedding.
One afternoon she telephoned Norman asking him to come on his way home that evening. "I particularly wish to see you," she said. He thought her voice sounded rather queer, but he did not take sufficient interest to speculate about it. When he was with her in the small drawing room on the second floor, he noted that her eyes were regarding him strangely. He thought he understood why when she said:
"Aren't you going to kiss me, Fred?"
He put on his good-natured, slightly mocking smile.
"I thought you were too busy for that sort of thing nowadays." And he bent and kissed her waiting lips.
Then he lit a cigarette and seated himself on the sofa beside her--the sofa at right angles to the open fire.
"Well?" he said.
She gazed into the fire for full a minute before she said in a voice of constraint, "What became of that--that girl--the Miss Hallowell----"
She broke off abruptly. There was a pause choked with those dizzy pulsations that fill moments of silence and strain. Then with a sob she flung herself against his breast and buried her face in his shoulder. "Don't answer!" she cried. "I'm ashamed of myself. I'm ashamed--ashamed!"
He put his arm about her shoulders. "But why shouldn't I answer?" said he in the kindly gentle tone we can all assume when a matter that agitates some one else is wholly indifferent to us.
"Because--it was a--a trap," she answered hysterically. "Fred--there was a man here this afternoon --a man named Tetlow. He got in only because he said he came from you."
Norman laughed quietly. "Poor Tetlow!" he said.
"He used to be your head clerk--didn't he?"
"And one of my few friends."
"He's not your friend, Fred!" she cried, sitting upright and speaking with energy that quivered in her voice and flashed in her fine brown eyes. "He's your enemy--a snake in the grass--a malicious, poisonous----"
Norman's quiet, even laugh interrupted. "Oh, no," said he. "Tetlow's a good fellow. Anything he said would be what he honestly believed--anything he said about me."
"He pleaded that he was doing it for your good," she went on with scorn. "They always do--like the people that write father wicked anonymous letters. He --this man Tetlow--he said he wanted me for the sake of my love for you to save you from yourself."
Norman glanced at her with amused eyes. "Well, why don't you? But then you ARE doing it. You're marrying me, aren't you?"
Again she put her head upon his shoulder. "Indeed I am!" she cried. "And I'd be a poor sort if I let a sneak shake my confidence in you."
He patted her shoulder, and there was laughter in his voice as he said, "But I never professed to be trustworthy."
"Oh, I know you USED to--" She laughed and kissed his cheek. "Never mind. I've heard. But while you were engaged to me--about to marry me--why, you simply couldn't!"
"Couldn't what?" inquired he.
"Do you want me to tell you what he said?"
"I think I know. But do as you like."
"Maybe I'd better tell you. I seem to want to get rid of it."
"Then do."
"It was about that girl." She sat upright and looked at him for encouragement. He nodded. She went on: "He said that if I asked you, you would not dare deny you were--were--giving her money."
"Her and her father."
She shrank, startled. Then her lips smiled bravely, and she said, "He didn't say anything about her father."
"No. That was my own correction of his story."
She looked at him with wonder and doubt. "You aren't--DOING it, Fred!" she exclaimed.
He nodded. "Yes, indeed." He looked at her placidly. "Why not?"
"You are SUPPORTING her?"
"If you wish to put it that way," said he carelessly. "My money pays the bills--all the bills."
"Fred!"
"Yes? What is it? Why are you so agitated?"
He studied her face, then rose, took a final pull at the cigarette, tossed it in the fire. "I must be going," he said, in a cool, even voice.
She started up in a panic. "Fred! What do you mean? Are you angry with me?"
His calm regard met hers. "I do not like--this sort of thing," he said.
"But surely you'll explain. Surely I'm entitled to an explanation."
"Why should I explain? You have evidently found an explanation that satisfies you." He drew himself up in a quiet gesture of haughtiness. "Besides, it has never been my habit to allow myself to be questioned or to explain myself."
Her eyes widened with terror. "Fred!" she gasped. "What DO you mean?"
"Precisely what I say," said he, in the same cool, inevitable way. "A man came to you with a story about me. You listened. A sufficient answer to the story was that I am marrying you. That answer apparently does not content you. Very well. I shall make no other."
