The Letter of the Contract | Page 6

tears began to flow again. "It's because I don't know what
else to do. When he doesn't come any more--"
"Oh, so he doesn't come."

"Not unless I make him. When he sees me here--"
"Well, what then?"
"He gets angry. He comes to tell me that if I do it again--"
"I see. But he comes. It brings him. That's the main thing, isn't it? Well,
now that you've told me so much, I'll--I'll try to--to send him." She was
struck with a new thought. "If you were to come in now--you
could--you could wait for him."
The frightened look returned. "Oh, but he'd kill me!"
"Oh no, he wouldn't." She smiled again, with a sense of her superiority.
"He wouldn't kill you when he knew I didn't care."
"But don't you care?"
She shook her head. "No. And I shall never care again. He can do what
he likes. He's free--and so are you. I'd rather he went to you. Eleven
years, did you say? Why, he was your husband long before he was
mine."
"Oh no; he was never my husband. We agreed from the first--"
"He wasn't your husband according to the strict letter of the contract;
but I don't care anything about that. It's what I call being your husband.
I'd rather you took him back.... Oh, my God! There he is."
He was standing on the other side of the street watching them. How
long he had been there neither of them knew. Engrossed in the subject
between them, and screened by their sunshades, they hadn't noticed him
come round the corner from Madison Avenue on his way home. He
stood leaning on his stick, stroking an end of his long mustache
pensively. He wore a gray suit and a soft gray felt hat. For a minute or
more there was no change in his attitude, even when the terrified eyes
of the women told him he was observed. As he began to thread his way
among the vehicles to cross the street he displayed neither haste nor

confusion. Edith could see that, though he was pale and grave, he could,
even in this situation, carry himself with dignity. In its way it was
something to be glad of. She herself stood her ground as a man on a
sinking ship waits for the waves to engulf him.
Reaching the pavement, he ignored his wife to go directly to the
woman.
"What does this mean, Maggie?"
His tone was not so much stern as reproachful. The faded woman, who
was still trying to make herself young and pretty, quailed at it.
Edith came to her relief:
"Isn't that something for you to explain, Chip?"
He turned to his wife. "I'm willing to explain anything you like,
Edith--as far as I can."
"I won't ask you how far that is--because I know already everything I
need to know."
"Everything you need to know--what for?"
"For understanding my position, I suppose."
"Your position? Your position is that of my wife."
"Oh no, it isn't. There's your wife."
"Don't say that, Edith. That lady would be the first to tell you--"
"She has been the first to tell me. She's been extremely kind. She's
answered my questions with a frankness--"
"But you're not kind, Edith. Surely you see that--that mentally she's
not--not like every one else."

"Oh, quite. I don't think I am now. I doubt if I ever shall be again. No
woman can be mentally like every one else after she's been deceived as
we've been."
"She hasn't been deceived, Edith; and I should never have deceived you
if--"
She laughed without mirth. "If you hadn't wanted to keep me in the
dark."
"No; if I hadn't had responsibilities--"
"Responsibilities! Do you call that"--her glance indicated the woman,
whose misty stare went from the one to the other in a vain effort to
follow what they were saying--"do you call that a responsibility?"
"I'm afraid I do, Edith."
"And what about--me?"
"Hasn't a man more responsibilities than one?"
"A married man hasn't more wives than one."
"A married man has to take his life as his life has formed itself. He was
an unmarried man first."
"Which means, I suppose, that the ties he formed when he was an
unmarried man--"
"May bind him still--if they're of a certain kind."
"And yours are--of a certain kind."
"They're of that kind. I haven't been able to free myself from them. But
don't you think we'd better go in? We can hardly talk about such things
out here."
She bowed to another passing friend. He, too, lifted his hat. When the

friend had gone by she glanced hastily toward the house.
"No, I can't go in," she said, hurriedly. "I'd rather talk out here."
"Very well, then. We can take a