But it was not. When he got to the house, and actually saw her, ill, tortured with anxiety, when he once more heard her voice, his resolution failed him. It was not so much through pity or affection, either; it was the woman’s uncanny plausibility, the preposterous air of respectability she threw over all she did. He could not see her as a criminal. Fate had reserved curious sufferings for him, unique pains. To live through that night, with honest Mr. Petersen, to be in his house, while Minnie bore his child.... And then, still at Mr. Petersen’s side, to go in to her, and look at her son.... He was in a state of utter chaos. His little girl didn’t know him. In a year and a half she had quite forgotten him, was growing up contentedly under another man’s roof. It hurt him beyond measure. He had no idea how he had changed, what with his beard, and the ravages of his illness. It gave him a sensation of being already dead and buried and forgotten. He couldn’t make himself feel as he believed he should feel. He could not hate Minnie, and he actually liked Mr. Petersen. And pitied them both. He thought, more seriously than he had ever thought before in his life, and came to a conclusion which was quite at variance with his tradition. “I’m no good to Minnie or Sandra,” he said to himself, “I’ll go away, and leave them to the man who can take care of them.” And above all, he wished to consider Mr. Petersen. He was more anxious to spare him than to spare Minnie. His one comfort was that he was not “wronging” that honest man, that he was, in fact, making an honourable and terribly difficult sacrifice for him, in thus giving up to him not only Minnie but little Sandra. He would leave Mr. Petersen undisturbed in his fool’s Paradise. He wanted passionately, with all his soul, to do this one decent thing, to atone for Minnie’s sins and his own by this restitution. It saved him in his own eyes. Minnie did not oppose him. But she begged him to wait until she was a little better. She was so heart-broken over the separation and so docile that he yielded, and waited there in Mr. Petersen’s house during the days of her convalescence. But, no sooner had she begun to grow well again than she began shamelessly to--as the novels say--persecute him with her attentions. He was immeasurably shocked; he told her plainly what he thought of such conduct. Under Mr. Petersen’s very roof! “But you’re my own husband,” said Minnie. “Do you mean to say you’re so depraved that you can’t _see_? That you’d deceive that fine fellow again?” “He’s nothing to me,” said Minnie, “I never even pretended to love him.” And added: “I only did it for Sandra’s sake.” “Didn’t you know it was criminal? You’re a _bigamist_. You----” She began to cry. “I know it! But a mother will do anything in the world for her child. If she’s a true woman.”