She was never away.... But was he--sure! How did he know what went on--all day... half past seven till seven at night? In the evenings she mended the children’s clothes and he looked over the paper. Sometimes they talked about things and planned how they could get along. Rosalind was a good manager. He saw her sitting beside the lamp, in her cheap dress, her head bent over the figures, working it out with him--and he saw the woman in the alcove--the clothes she wore--he drew back before it--more than the whole family spent in a year!... The gloves alone might have bought her Sunday suit--Sunday was, after all, the only day he knew where she was--in church with him and, in the afternoon, lying down in her room while he took the children for a walk.... He was a good father--he set his teeth to it defiantly, against the wind. She could not accuse _him_ of neglect.... Suddenly a hurt feeling stirred somewhere deep down--He did not look at it; he did not know it was there. But the first shock had passed. He was not bewildered any more. He could think steadily, putting point to point, building up the “case”.... Then, suddenly, he would see her in the great spectacles, reminding him of the clothes-line--and his “case” collapsed like a foolish little card house.... Not Rosalind--other women, perhaps--but not Rosalind.... He turned slowly back, the wind behind him urging him on. He would go home--to her. Perhaps when he saw her he should know what to think.... But perhaps she had not yet come home. If he hurried he might get there before her and face her as she came in. He hurried fast, he almost ran, and when he reached the streets he signalled a cab; he had not used a cab for years; it would cost a dollar, at least--He looked out at the half-deserted street--the crowd had thinned. He held his watch where the light of the street arc flashed across it--six-thirty. Half an hour before his usual time. He paid the fare and went quickly up the steps.... The children were talking in the dining-room. There was no other sound. He opened the door and looked in. She was standing by the table looking at Tommie’s coat--There was a rent in the shoulder and the face bent above it had a look of quiet patience--The grey-drab hair was parted exactly in the middle and combed smoothly down; the eyes behind the spectacles looked up--with the little line between them. When she saw who it was she glanced for a moment at the clock and then back at him--“Did you bring the clothesline?” she asked. He stared at her a moment--at her plain, cheap dress and homely face. Then he turned away. “I--forgot,” he said. II