Jack Kimble nodded eagerly. She confided in me yesterday. “To the young man himself,” he answered, “no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence. A wife formed part of his scheme of life, for several years he had been secretly but assiduously looking for her. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. He bent to her hand, and she slipped off the ring and gave it to him to examine. He flung Ruth aside, careless whether she fell or not. The new and the old cancelled out; his daughters became quasi-independent dependents—which is absurd.
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