“It is not unlike all stories of its kind, my dear,” she said with an indifference that amazed him. “They are all alike. Why should I ask? The wife takes up with an old lover; she deceives her husband; the world either does or does not find out about it; the home is wrecked; the husband takes to drink; the wife pretends she is happy; the lover takes to women; and the world goes on just the same in spite of them. Sometimes the husband kills. It is of no moment. Sometimes the wife destroys herself. It is a trifle. The whole business is like the magazine story that is for ever being continued in our next. No, I do not ask you for your story, James. Some time you may tell me, but not to-day. I shouldn't mind hearing it if it were an original tale, but God knows it isn't. It's as old as the Nile. But you may tell me more about your son. Is he like you, or like his mother?” Brood's lips were compressed. “I can't say that he is like either of us,” he said shortly. She raised her eyebrows slightly. “Ah,” she said. “That makes quite a difference. Perhaps, after all, I shall be interested in the story.” Her manner was so casual, so serenely, matter-of-fact, that he could hardly restrain the sharp exclamation of annoyance that rose to his lips. He bit his lip and allowed the frank insinuation to go unanswered. He consoled himself with the thought that she must have spoken in jest without intention. He had the uncomfortable feeling that she would make light of his story, too, when the time came for revelations. A curious doubt took root in his mind: Would he ever be able to understand the nature of this woman whom he loved and who appeared to love him so unreservedly? As time went on the doubt became a conviction. She proved to be utterly beyond Brood's comprehension. The charm and beauty of the new mistress of James Brood's heart and home was to become the talk of the town. Already, in the first month of her reign, she had drawn to the old house the attention not only of the parasites who feed on novelty, but of families that had long since given up Brood as a representative figure in the circle into which he had been born. He had dropped out of their lives so completely in the passing years that no one took the trouble to interest himself in the man's affairs. His self-effacement had been complete. The story of his ill-fated marriage was an almost forgotten page in the history of the town. Old friends now cudgelled their brains to recall the details of the break between him and the first Mrs Brood, who, they were bound to remember, was also beautiful, fascinating, and an adornment to the rather exclusive circle in which they moved. No one could point to the real cause of the separation, however, for the excellent reason that the true conditions were never revealed to anyone outside the four walls of the house from which she was banished.