“I cannot understand,” she cried. “Why should you send for his poor wife? If we are divorced, is not that enough?” And she looked sadly but affectionately at her lover. “It shall not prevent our being happy,” she said softly. They could not undeceive her then. She had borne the blow and the consequent excitement bravely, but she had weakened under it; so it was understood between these two that they would spare her as much as possible until she was away from the place; and Jim was resolved to get her away as soon as possible. They went through the pretense of eating again, with the same result as at breakfast. “I will never be able to eat a meal in this cursed place,” said Jim impatiently, as they left the table; and then he went without his after-dinner cigar, that he might go up and encourage Norine to eat as much as possible. Conway wandered around aimlessly. He could not join Norine. He knew the value of that bit of paper that had imposed on her, and her innocent expressions of affection were very bitter to him. They were parted now--parted more certainly than this man’s death could have parted them, and all the bitterness of this separation was upon him. He had loved this girl so ardently, and he had seen her carried away from him by a less timid wooer; then, when it seemed as if death had removed his rival, he still waited, being considerate of her widowhood. And at last, after all his pain and patient waiting, he had gained her love; after he had felt her soft arms around him, and knew that at last he had won his wife, then, that this man should again come between them and rob him of his treasure! Ah, it was bitter! He knew Norine, and felt the sting of that villain’s words. “She would be his wife as long as he lived.” Not that she loved him, or would give him aught but contempt--it was not that; but he knew her hatred for the publicity of a court of law, and her scornful contempt for those who rush into the divorce court to air their family troubles in the sight of all. “Once a wife, always a wife,” she thought; “and if they made a mistake, let them abide by it and suffer silently.” Her opinions were not “progressive”--God save the mark!--but they were noble and right, and Conway, in spite of his bitter pain, felt them to be so. He was at the depot when the train came thundering in, and easily identified Fanny and her father from Lettie’s description. They looked worried, and Fanny was decidedly out of temper. She was overdressed and ill-mannered and superficial. But Conway pitied her sincerely; and his heart went out to her kindly, good-natured father in earnest sympathy. “He looks _good_,” commented Conway mentally. “And she--well, God pity her, poor thing!--she is worse off even than Norine, for she is neither maid nor wife.” And thinking moodily over the wrongs this villain had done, he strode gravely off on his way to Coleman’s office. Jim was waiting for him, full of impatience.