"No," murmured her sister; "he isn't. I never heard him speak so before.

It was terrible."

Alice drew her mouth into a mirthless smile and regarded Edith critically. "I don't believe you know Donald as well as I do," she remarked at length. "You've always thought him quiet, and mild, and easy-going. You've even complained to me that he had no backbone--that he didn't master you. You once said you'd have cared for him more, if he had. You're like lots of women, Edith. You think because a man loves you, and treats you tenderly, he's weak. You'd rather be beaten than petted, I guess. Well, Sis--you've made a big mistake. Donald has always been like clay with you, because he loved you, but I guess the fire that you've started in him has burnt him hard. Don't imagine you can pull any wool over his eyes now. He's likely to give you the surprise of your life." She went over to the dressing-table and began to arrange her hair. "Emerson is going to take mother and me to dinner as soon as we get in town, and then we're going up to the apartment--about eight, I think. We won't be back until to-morrow."

"Oh--if you could only bring Bobbie back with you!"

"Not likely, Edith. Donald loves that child with the love of a strong, silent man, and he'll never give him up."

"But he's mine--mine."

"Not a bit more than he is Donald's. In fact, I rather think he has the law on his side, if you come to that."

Edith renewed her sobbing. "I don't know what to do--I can't let him stay there in town, in all the heat. It would kill him."

"Oh, no, it wouldn't. Bobbie isn't as frail as all that. Of course he'd be better off here, but I guess he'll survive."

"Then you do advise me to give up the money?" Edith's voice held a note almost of anger.

"Not at all. I advise you to give it to mother. That will satisfy everybody--especially mother."

"And you, I suppose," remarked Edith petulantly.

"Oh--I don't care a rap. I'm too happy, thinking about Emerson, to care about money. All that I ask is that you patch things up somehow, so as to avoid a scandal." She turned to go. "Just suppose, Edith, that Donald had been on the point of leaving you with some other woman, and the woman had died, and left him a fortune. Would you like to spend any of it? Think it over. Good-by, now. We've got to hurry, to make that train."

Mrs. Pope looked in for a moment on her way downstairs. "Cheer up, my dear," she said. "Don't let this thing worry you into a spell of sickness. I'll arrange everything. I'm going to let Donald see that he isn't the only one to be considered in this matter. The greatest good of the greatest number--that's my policy. I won't have any high-flown theatrical nonsense spoil your life."

"Mother," Edith called after her, "please be careful what you say." Mrs.

Pope paid no attention to her. The militant-looking feather upon her large black hat wagged ominously as she strode down the stairs. "Idiot!"

she muttered to herself. "Why can't he act like a sensible human being?"

Left to herself, Edith started once more the treadmill of thought which whirled around and around in a circle, and left her always just where she had begun. No matter how she strove to justify Donald in his anger, the dread specter of poverty grinned at her through all her arguments, and her resolutions fled. She looked about the room. The rose pink velvet carpet, the soft white bearskin rug beside the bed, the lovely wall paper, the exquisite hangings, the graceful mahogany furniture, all called to her compellingly. One of the maids, entering soft-footed, brought her some bouillon and the breast of a chicken, on a silver tray.

The servant moved about noiselessly, pulling down the shades to shut out the afternoon sun. Edith drew her clinging silk night-dress about her throat, and sat up.

"Will madam have a gla.s.s of sherry?" the maid asked, as she removed an immense bunch of roses from the low wicker table, and placed the tray upon it.

Edith thought she would. Somehow, she was beginning to feel better. Her mother, with Alice's a.s.sistance, would doubtless arrange everything satisfactorily. After all, she had done no wrong. She ate the chicken with considerable relish and sent the maid for some fruit. How different all this was from the dingy, ill-smelling little apartment of the past, where half her life was spent over the gas range. It all seemed very far away from her, as she sank luxuriously back among the pillows and picked up a book she had been trying to read.

The book proved dull and uninteresting. In a little while she fell asleep. As she lay there, her firm round throat exposed, her lips, red and full, slightly parted over her small white teeth, she looked very alluring--very beautiful. The maid coming to the door, closed it softly, and went downstairs to discuss the scandal of Mr. Rogers' disappearance with Patrick and Fannie and the other servants. Over the whole house brooded the hot white silence of a mid-August day.

CHAPTER XVIII

It was close to midnight when Donald Rogers, with Bobbie asleep in his arms, reached the door of his apartment in One Hundred and Tenth Street.

The little fellow had protested at first against this unexpected journey, but was too tired to give the matter much thought, and soon slipped away into the land of dreams, where he found himself gaily sailing his pony cart, which, strangely enough, seemed to resemble a sailboat, with the pony sitting beside him in a very dignified manner, acting as crew.

Donald himself spent a sleepless night. The cruel revelation of the treachery to which he had been subjected at the hands of his best friend, and, crowning this, the knowledge that his wife had been equally untrue, left him like a man shipwrecked on an island of desolation, with no one to whom he could turn for help or sympathy. He had trusted Edith implicitly--had given her the best there was in him all these years; and now it seemed that nothing but a cup of bitterness was to be his reward.

The minutes dragged as though they were hours, and it seemed as though the dawn would never come. But at last the wretched night was over, and morning found him in the little kitchenette, trying painfully, with unaccustomed fingers, to prepare breakfast for Bobbie and himself.

Most of the day he spent with the child, wandering through the park, his thoughts never far removed from the tragic moments of the evening before. What would Edith do? was his incessant thought. He felt sure that she would come to him because of Bobbie, but he was by no means certain, realizing her innate vanity, that she would consent to give up the money which West had left her, in return for his forgiveness. On no other condition, however, would he treat with her. On this point he was fully determined.

The dusk of evening found Bobbie and himself dining solemnly together in a little restaurant at which he had been in the habit of getting his meals during the hot weather.

On their return to the apartment, Donald, avoiding Bobbie's questions as far as he could, regarding his mother's absence, sent the little fellow to his room, and sank into his accustomed seat by the desk, staring moodily into s.p.a.ce. The sound of the buzzer in the kitchen, announcing that the janitor was ready to remove the garbage, brought him back with a sudden shock from his dreaming, and he began to realize his utter loneliness. He picked up a paper, and made an ineffectual attempt to read; but for some minutes was unable to concentrate his mind on the page before him. Presently there emerged from the maze of type the flaring headline:

DIVORCED AFTER TEN YEARS' MARRIED BLISS.

WIFE GETS CHILDREN--HUSBAND A SUICIDE.

He threw down the paper with a curse, and strode impatiently up and down the room, glancing from time to time at his watch. A faint voice from the bedroom door caused him to pause.

"Papa," it said.

He turned and saw Bobbie standing in the doorway. "Why don't you go to bed, Bobbie?" he exclaimed, almost irritably, but his manner changed as he observed the pathetic, appealing little figure. The child had taken off his blouse, and wore only his little undershirt and his shoes.

"Won't you take off my shoes, papa? I got them all tied in knots." He glanced reproachfully down at the cause of his trouble.

With a great pain gripping at his heart at the helplessness of the child, Donald came quickly forward, and, seating himself, placed the boy on his knee.

"We'll soon fix that, little man," he said, as he began to remove the shoes.

"Papa--where is mamma?"

"She's in the country, dear."

"When is she coming?"

"I don't know, Bobbie," he responded, with a heavy sigh. In his interest in the child he had for the moment almost forgotten the absence of his wife.

"Is she coming to-night, papa?" the little fellow continued tremulously.

"No, Bobbie, not to-night."

"Why isn't she, papa?" And then, after a short interval of puzzled reflection: "She belongs here, doesn't she?"

"She can't come to-night, my child. And you must be a good little fellow, and not ask papa any more about it. Now, it's time you went to sleep," he concluded, as he finished his task.

"Papa, are you angry with mamma?"

The childish question hurt him to the quick. "Don't bother your little head about it, my child. You wouldn't understand. Remember that she is your mother, and you must love her always."

"I do, papa. She got me my pony, and my boat, and lots of things. I wish she was here right now."

"You must be patient, dear, and go to sleep quietly, like a good boy.

To-morrow I will get a nice, kind lady to take care of you."