Chapter 18
"Naturally," he said, "you are the one to be considered, not the man in the case."
"Thank you. _Are_ you the man in the case?"
"There is no case," he said coolly.
"Then why worry about me?"
He folded his arms, sullenly at bay; yet had no premonition of what to expect from her.
"You were very brutal to me," she said at length.
"I know it; and I did not intend to be. The words came."
"You had me at your mercy; and showed me little--a very little at first.
Afterward, none."
"The words came," he repeated; "I'm sick with self-contempt, I tell you."
She set her white-gloved elbow on the window sill and rested her chin in her palm.
"That--money," she said with an effort. "You set--some--aside for me."
"Half," he nodded calmly.
"Why?"
He was silent.
"_Why_? I did not ask for it? There was nothing in the--the legal proceedings to lead you to believe that I desired it; was there?"
"No."
"Well, then," her breath came unsteadily, "what was there in _me_ to make you think I would accept it?"
He did not reply.
"Answer me. This is the time to answer me."
"The answer is simple enough," he said in a low voice. "Together we had made a failure of partners.h.i.+p. When that partners.h.i.+p was dissolved, there remained the joint capital to be divided. And I divided it. Why not?"
"That capital was yours in the beginning; not mine. What I had of my own you never controlled; and I took it with me when I went."
"It was very little," he said.
"What of that? Did that concern you? Did you think I would have accepted anything from you? A thousand times I have been on the point of notifying
"Why didn't you notify me then?" he asked, reddening to the temples.
"Because--I did not wish to hurt you--by doing it that way.... And I had not the courage to say it kindly over my own signature. That is why, Captain Selwyn."
And, as he remained silent: "That is what I had to say; not all--because--I wish to--to thank you for offering it.... You did not have very much, either; and you divided what you had. So I thank you--and I return it."... The tension forced her to attempt a laugh.
"So we stand once more on equal terms; unless you have anything of mine to return--"
"I have your photograph," he said.
The silence lasted until he straightened up and, rubbing the fog from the window gla.s.s, looked out.
"We are in the Park," he remarked, turning toward her.
"Yes; I did not know how long it might take to explain matters. You are free of me now whenever you wish."
He picked up the telephone, hesitated: "Home?" he inquired with an effort. And at the forgotten word they looked at one another in stricken silence.
"Y-yes; to _your_ home first, if you will let me drop you there--"
"Thank you; that might be imprudent."
"No, I think not. You say you are living at the Gerards?"
"Yes, temporarily. But I've already taken another place."
"Where?"
"Oh, it's only a bachelor's kennel--a couple of rooms--"
"Where, please?"
"Near Lexington and Sixty-sixth. I could go there; it's only partly furnished yet--"
"Then tell Hudson to drive there."
"Thank you, but it is not necessary--"
"Please let me; tell Hudson, or I will."
"You are very kind," he said; and gave the order.
Silence grew between them like a wall. She lay back in her corner, swathed to the eyes in her white furs; he in his corner sat upright, arms loosely folded, staring ahead at nothing. After a while he rubbed the moisture from the pane again.
"Still in the Park! He must have driven us nearly to Harlem Mere. It _is_ the Mere! See the cafe lights yonder. It all looks rather gay through the snow."
"Very gay," she said, without moving. And, a moment later: "Will you tell me something?... You see"--with a forced laugh--"I can't keep my mind--from it."
"From what?" he asked.
"The--tragedy; ours."
"It has ceased to be that; hasn't it?"