It had been so since her affair with Percival Houghton, the artist who had "stolen her soul." This affair had been an accident of conduct and circumstances, and not, as she always declared, a logical outcome of her character and convictions. And it was as a result of this accidental episode that she was now an irritable, spiteful, new-fangled woman instead of the old-fashioned wife and mother (of seven children) that she should have been. Some dim perception of all this stirred in the head of Harry Kelly the ex-Harlem Gorilla. Kelly’s mentality fell far short of his bodily development. Still, he was no fool, and he rightly guessed that Cornelia was unfair to her former protegee. He did not approve of Janet’s flight with Claude. But he had seen too much of life in the Lorillard tenements to be easily scandalized. Moreover, his fondness for Janet disposed him to put the blame, if any, on her lover. Like many amiable persons, he reserved his moral censure exclusively for people he did not know or did not like. "The poor kid’s down on her luck," he ventured gingerly. "It’s not up to us to hurry the post-mortem." "Down on her luck! With a man like Claude at her side?" cried Cornelia, the words curving by slow ascent to an unmusical top note. "Claude’s a grand looking man, that’s true. But I’ve known many a grand looking man who was no better than a four-flusher when you had to share your bunk with him." "Poor Hercules, what do you know about it? If Claude was a rotter, she should have left him. In all decency, she should have left him the moment she saw that her passion was merely physical. What has she done? Nothing. They are still together on the most intimate terms." Kelly put his arm soothingly round her waist. It was a privilege she had allowed him in the dull days of late—though not often and always grudgingly. "I don’t suppose she’s going to have a child," she went on, in a bitter tone, "yet that would be her one solid happiness. She’s too selfish, I fear. Look how idiotically fate deals out the cards. _She_ could have a child, but she doesn’t want one, while I want one so much, but—" It was a generous hiatus, and her voice softened as she approached it. She was forever telling men that she wanted a child of her own; they were usually embarrassed or piqued by the information; and whatever the effect she enjoyed it. For once, Kelly was not nonplussed. He drew his arm tighter. "Listen, sweetheart," he said, sentimentally, "what’s to prevent it? I want kiddies, too." "Do you indeed," said Cornelia, with a dangerous light in her eyes. "I said I wanted a child. The difficulty is that I don’t want the father for it." "Why not, if we’re married?" he proceeded with unexampled obstinacy. "I’d rather follow Janet than go on being tormented like this," he concluded, drawing the long bow at a venture.