“And that, in a very short time afterwards, he met her with as much apparent indifference as if she had never been to him more than a pleasant acquaintance. Of the struggle through which he passed, in the work of obliterating her image from his mind, she knows nothing.” “But he knows it,” objected Constance. “And what does that signify? Will he defend her less skillfully on this account? Rather will he not feel a stronger interest in the case?” “I do not think that she will employ him to defend her,” said Constance. “I would not, were the case mine.” “Womanly pride spoke there, Constance.” “Or rather say a manly lack of perception in your case.” “Perception of what?” “Of the fitness of things,” she answered. “That is just what I do see,” I returned. “There is no man in S----better fitted for conducting this case than Mr. Wallingford.” “She will never place it in his hands; you may take a woman's word for that,” said my wife confidently. “Of all living men he is the last one to whom she could talk of the humiliating particulars involved in a case like this.” “Suppose you suggest his name to her. Twelve years of such a life as she has led may have almost obliterated the memory of that passage in her life.” “Don't believe it. A woman never forgets a passage like that; particularly when the events of every passing day but serve to remind her of the error she once committed.” “I don't know what else to advise,” said I. “She ought to have a good and discreet man to represent her, or all may be lost.” “Would you have any objection to confer with Mr. Wallingford on the subject in a private, confidential way?” “None in the world,” I replied. “Will you see him at once?” The interest of Constance was too strongly excited to brook delay. “Yes, immediately.” And putting on my overcoat I went to the office of Mr. Wallingford. I found him alone, and at once laid the whole case before him--relating, with particularity, all that had occurred between my wife and Mrs. Dewey. He listened with deep and pitying attention; and when I was through, expressed his opinion of Dewey in very strong language. “And now what is to be done?” I asked, going at once to the vital question. “Your wife is right,” he answered. “I can hardly become her advocate. It would involve humiliation on her part too deep to be borne. But my aid she shall have to the fullest extent; and it will be strange if I do not thwart his wicked scheme.” “How will you aid her?” “Through her right attorney, if my advice as to the choice be followed. You know James Orton?” “Yes.” “He is a young man to be relied upon. Let Mrs. Dewey put the case in his hands. If she does so, it will be, virtually, in mine.” “Enough, Mr. Wallingford,” said I. “It looks more hopeful for our poor unhappy friend, against whom even her own flesh and blood have turned.”