The explanation which Lester had concluded to be inevitable, whether it led to separation or legalization of their hitherto banal condition, followed quickly upon the appearance of Mr. O’Brien. On the day Mr. O’Brien called he had gone on a journey to Hegewisch, a small manufacturing town in Wisconsin, where he had been invited to witness the trial of a new motor intended to operate elevators—with a view to possible investment. When he came out to the house, interested to tell Jennie something about it even in spite of the fact that he was thinking of leaving her, he felt a sense of depression everywhere, for Jennie, in spite of the serious and sensible conclusion she had reached, was not one who could conceal her feelings easily. She was brooding sadly over her proposed action, realizing that it was best to leave but finding it hard to summon the courage which would let her talk to him about it. She could not go without telling him what she thought. He ought to want to leave her. She was absolutely convinced that this one course of action—separation—was necessary and advisable. She could not think of him as daring to make a sacrifice of such proportions for her sake even if he wanted to. It was impossible. It was astonishing to her that he had let things go along as dangerously and silently as he had. When he came in Jennie did her best to greet him with her accustomed smile, but it was a pretty poor imitation. “Everything all right?” she asked, using her customary phrase of inquiry. “Quite,” he answered. “How are things with you?” “Oh, just the same.” She walked with him to the library, and he poked at the open fire with a long-handled poker before turning around to survey the room generally. It was five o’clock of a January afternoon. Jennie had gone to one of the windows to lower the shade. As she came back he looked at her critically. “You’re not quite your usual self, are you?” he asked, sensing something out of the common in her attitude. “Why, yes, I feel all right,” she replied, but there was a peculiar uneven motion to the movement of her lips—a rippling tremor which was unmistakable to him. “I think I know better than that,” he said, still gazing at her steadily. “What’s the trouble? Anything happened?” She turned away from him a moment to get her breath and collect her senses. Then she faced him again. “There is something,” she managed to say. “I have to tell you something.” “I know you have,” he agreed, half smiling, but with a feeling that there was much of grave import back of this. “What is it?” She was silent for a moment, biting her lips. She did not quite know how to begin. Finally she broke the spell with: “There was a man here yesterday—a Mr. O’Brien, of Cincinnati. Do you know him?” “Yes, I know him. What did he want?” “He came to talk to me about you and your father’s will.”