“But I’ve got to be going now,” he added, and so turned away to the street gate, so shaken with white anger that he scarce cared where he went. Haddon, mumbling, rose and went into the house, leaving his wife alone. Not long later she heard a giggle, a protest, a chuckle of low laughter. James Haddon had chucked the comely Widow Dunham under the chin, had cast an arm across her somewhat ample shoulders. “Who was that talkin’ outside?” queried the widow. “Oh, that? It was that long-legged chambermaid you had working here last year—Jucklin—Joslin—— What’s his name? Never mind him—won’t I do? At least I used to.” The widow replied in such fashion as was obvious. Their joint murmured, low-laughing conversation became unescapable for the single auditor on the gallery. At length Marcia Haddon rose. Something came upon her on the instant, some swift, unappointed revolt, an unspeakable disgust with the married bondage she had so long borne unwillingly. She could not speak with her husband—quietly she passed the two and went into her own room. He followed her, after a time, and there she turned upon him suddenly, her cheeks burning in two red spots. “Jim, I can’t stand this sort of thing any longer. I can’t—I can’t—and I will not!” He stood suddenly crestfallen at this sudden revolt of one long thought so passive. She went on hurriedly. “It’s gone too far. If it’s not one woman, it’s another. It’s in your blood now—you’ve been at this sort of thing so long you can’t stop. I’ve been ashamed for years. How can I help knowing?” “If I did, who’s to blame?” he rejoined surlily. “A woman as cold as you——” “Yes, that’s true now, that’s true! But why should you care? Only, I’ll not go on this way any farther.” Hands in pockets, he only turned away, growling. “Oh, yes, back home,” she went on, her hands at the sides of her temples, “I seemed to be able to stand it. But here—things seem plainer, some way.” His sneer had the sullen anger of a man who knows the indefensibility of his position. “That long-legged lout has taught you to cheek me too. Damn him!” “Jim,” said she, “I don’t like to hear such things of you. It’s not worthy of the man you used to be. When we get back to the city we’ll have to get on some other way. I’ll go on through with you now, because I know your business interests are in real danger. I won’t say anything now. But that’s all. I’m done. This is good-by for you and me.” Dumfounded, Haddon left her and went out again into the darkness. He sat moodily, his cigar hanging from his flabby lips. Mutiny such as this he had never suspected as a possible thing from a woman like his wife. There came to him, sternly facing him now, two influences—new in his life of bluffing and jollying and pretending and evading and deceiving—the indomitableness of a real man and the immutability of a real woman. CHAPTER XIX THE NARROWS