The morning after the quarrel Bernice woke late. She had not fallen asleep till the night was well spent, the heated seething¹ of her rage keeping the peace of repose² far from her. It was only as the dawn paled the square of the window that she fell into a heavy slumber³, disturbed by dreams full of stress and strife⁴.  
She looked up at the clock; it was nearly ten. Dominick would have left for the bank before this, so the wretched constraint⁵ of a meeting with him was postponed⁶. Sallow and heavy-eyed, her head aching, oppressed by a sense of the unbearable⁷ unpleasantness of the situation, she threw on her wrapper, and going to the window drew the curtain and looked out.
 
The bedroom had but one window, wedged into an angle of wall, and affording a glimpse of the green lawn and clipped rose trees of the house next door. There was a fog this morning and even this curtailed⁸ prospect⁹ was obliterated¹⁰. She stood yawning drearily¹¹, and gazing out with eyes to which her yawns had brought tears. Her hair made a wild bush round her head, her face looked pinched and old. She was one of those women whose good looks are dependent on animation¹³ and millinery. In this fixity of inward thought, unobserved in unbecoming disarray¹⁴, one could realize that she had attained¹⁵ the thirty-four years she could so successfully deny under the rejuvenating¹⁶ influences of full dress and high spirits.
 
During her toilet her thoughts refused to leave the subject of last night’s quarrel. She and her husband had had disagreements before—many in the last year when they had virtually separated, though the world did not know it—but nothing so ignominiously¹⁷ repulsive¹⁸ as the scene of last evening had yet degraded their companionship. Bernice was ashamed. In the gray light of the dim, disillusioning¹⁹ morning she realized that she had gone too far. She knew Dominick to be long-suffering, she knew that the hold she had upon him was a powerful one, but the most patient creatures sometimes rebel, the most compelling sense of honor would sometimes break under too severe a strain. As she trailed down the long passage to the dining-room she made up her mind that she would make the first overture²⁰ toward reconciliation²¹ that evening. It would be difficult but she would do it.
 
She was speculating as to how she would begin, in what manner she would greet him when he came home, when her eyes fell on the folded note against the clock. Apprehension²² clutched her as she opened it. The few lines within frightened her still more. He had gone—where? She turned the note over, looking at the back, in a sudden tremble of fearfulness. He had never done anything like this before, left her, suddenly cut loose from her in proud disgust. She stood by the clock, staring at the paper, her face fallen into scared blankness, the artificial hopefulness that she had been fostering since she awoke giving place to a down-drop into an abyss of alarm.
 
The door into the kitchen creaked and the Chinaman entered with the second part of the dainty breakfast cooked especially for her.
 
“What time did Mr. Ryan leave this morning?” she said without turning, throwing the question over her shoulder.
 
“I dunno,” the man returned, with the expressionless brevity of his race particularly accentuated²⁴ in this case, as he did not like his mistress. “He no take blickfuss here. He no stay here last night.”
 
She faced round on him, her eyes full of a sudden fierce intentness which marked them in moments of angry surprise.
 
“Wasn’t here last night?” she demanded. “What do you mean?”
 
He arranged the dishes with careful precision, not troubling himself to look up, and speaking with the same dry indifference²⁵.
 
“He not here for blickfuss. No one sleep in his bed. I go make bed—all made. I think he not here all night.”
 
His work being accomplished²⁶ he turned without more words and passed into the kitchen. Berny stood for a moment thinking, then, with a shrug²⁷ of defiance²⁸, left her buckwheat cakes untasted and walked into the hall. She went directly to her husband’s room and looked about with sharp glances. She opened drawers and peered into the wardrobes. She was a woman who had a curiously²⁹ keen memory for small domestic details, and a few moments’ investigation³⁰ proved to her that he had taken some of his oldest clothes, but had left behind all the better ones, and that the silver box of jewelry³¹ on the bureau—filled with relics³² of the days when he had been the idolized son of his parents—lacked none of its contents.
 
More alarmed than she had been in the course of her married life she left the room and passed up the hall to the parlor³³. The brilliant, over-furnished apartment in which she had crowded every fashion in interior decoration that had pleased her fancy and been within the compass of her purse, looked slovenly³⁴ and unattractive in the gray light of the morning. The smell of smoke was strong in it and the butts³⁵ and ashes of cigars Dominick had been smoking the evening before lay in a tray on the center-table. She noticed none of these things, which under ordinary circumstances would have been ground for scolding, for she was a woman of fastidious personal daintiness. A cushioned seat was built round the curve of the bay-window, and on this she sat down, drawing back the fall of thick écru lace that veiled the pane³⁶. Her eyes were fastened with an unwinking fixity on the fog-drenched street without; her figure was motionless.
 
Her outward rigidity³⁷ of body concealed³⁸ an intense inward energy of thought. It suddenly appeared to her as if her hold on Dominick, which till yesterday had seemed so strong that nothing but death could break it, was weak, was nothing. It had been rooted in his sense of honor, the sense that she fostered in him and by means of which she had been able to make him marry her. Was this sense not so powerful as she believed, or—dreadful thought!—was it weakening under the friction⁴⁰ of their life together? Had she played on it too much and worn it out? She had been so sure of Dominick, so secure in his blind, plodding⁴¹ devotion to his duty! She had secretly wondered at it, as a queer characteristic that it was fortunate he possessed⁴². Deep in her heart she had a slight, amused contempt for it, a contempt that had extended to other things. She had felt it for him in those early days of their marriage when he had looked forward to children and wanted to live quietly, without society, in his own home. It grew stronger later when she realized he had accepted his exclusion⁴³ from his world and was too proud to ask his mother for money.
 
And now! Suppose he had gone back to his people? A low ejaculation escaped her, and she dropped the curtain and pressed her hand, clenched⁴⁴ to the hardness of a stone, against her breast.
 
The mere⁴⁵ thought of such a thing was intolerable. She did not see how she could support the idea of his mother and sister winning him from her. She hated them. They were the ones who had wronged her, who had excluded her from the home and the riches and the position that her marriage should have given her. Her retaliation⁴⁶ had been her unwavering grip on Dominick and the careful discretion⁴⁷ with which she had comported⁴⁸ herself as his wife. There was no ground of complaint against her. She had been as quiet, home-keeping and dutiful a woman as any in California. She had been a good housekeeper⁴⁹, a skilful⁵⁰ manager of her husband’s small means. It was only within the last year that she had, in angry spite, run into the debts with which she had taunted⁵¹ him. No wife could have lived more rigorously up to the letter of her marriage contract. It was easy for her to do it. She was not a woman whom light living and license⁵² attracted. She had sacrificed her honor to win Dominick, grudgingly⁵³, unwillingly⁵⁴, as close-fisted men part with money in the hope of rich returns. She did not want to be his mistress, but she knew of no other means by which she could reach the position of his wife.
 
Now suppose he had gone back to his people! It was an insupportable, a maddening thought. It plunged⁵⁵ her into agitation⁵⁶ that made her rise and move about the room with an aimless restlessness, like some soft-footed feline⁵⁷ animal. Suppose he had gone home and told them about last night, and they had prevailed upon him not to come back!
 
Well, even if they had, hers was still the strong position. The sympathy of the disinterested⁵⁸ outsider would always be with her. If she had been quarrelsome and ugly, those were small matters. In the great essentials she had not failed. Suppose she and the Ryans ever did come to an open crossing of swords, would not her story be the story of the two? The world’s sympathy would certainly not go to the rich women, trampling⁵⁹ on the poor little typewriter, the honest working-girl, who for one slip, righted by subsequent marriage, had been the object of their implacable antagonism⁶⁰ and persecution⁶¹.
 
She said this opposite the mirror, extending her hands as she had seen an actress do in a recent play. As she saw her pointed⁶², pale face, her expression of worry gave way to one of pleased complacence. She looked pathetic, and her position was pathetic. Who would have the heart to condemn⁶³ her when they saw her and heard her side of the story? Her spirits began to rise. With the first gleam of returning confidence she shook off her apprehensions⁶⁴. A struggle of sunshine pierced the fog, and going to the window she drew the curtains and looked out on the veil of mist every moment growing brighter and thinner. The sun finally pierced it, a patch of blue shone above, and dropping the curtains she turned and looked at the clock. It was after eleven. She decided⁶⁵ she would go out and take lunch with her sisters, who were always ready to listen and to sympathize with her.
 
These sisters were the only intimate friends and companions Bernice had, their home the one house to which she was a constant visitor. With all her peculiarities⁶⁶ and faults she possessed a strong sense of kin²³. In her rise to fairer fortune, if not greater happiness, her old home had never lost its hold upon her, nor had she weakened in a sort of cross-grained, patronizing loyalty⁶⁸ to her two sisters. This may have been accounted for by the fact that they were exceedingly amiable⁶⁹ and affectionate, proud to regard Bernice as the flower of the family, whose dizzy translation to unexpected heights they had watched with unenvious admiration⁷⁰.
 
Hannah, the oldest of the family, was the daughter of a first marriage. She was now a spinster of forty-five, and had taught school for twenty years. Hazel was the youngest of the three, she and Bernice having been the offspring of Danny Iverson’s second alliance with a woman of romantic tendencies, which had no way of expressing themselves except in the naming of her children. Hazel, while yet in her teens, had married a clerk in a jewelry store, called Josh McCrae. It had been a happy marriage. After the birth of a daughter, Hazel had returned to her work as saleslady in a fashionable millinery. Both sisters, Josh, and the child, had continued to live together in domestic harmony, in the house which Hannah, with the savings⁷¹ of a quarter of a century, had finally cleared of all mortgages and now owned. No household could have been more simply decent and honest; no family more unaspiringly content. In such an environment Bernice, with her daring ambitions and bold unscrupulousness, was like that unaccounted-for blossom which in the floral world is known as a “sport.”
 
But it did not appear that she regarded herself as such. With the exception of a year spent in Los Angeles and Chicago she had been a member of the household from her childhood till the day of her marriage. The year of absence had been the result of a sudden revolt against the monotony of her life and surroundings, an upwelling of the restless ambitions that preyed⁷³ upon her. A good position had been offered her in Los Angeles and she had accepted it with eagerness, thankful for the opportunity to see the world, and break away, so she said, from the tameness of her situation, the narrowness of her circle. The spirit of adventure carried her farther afield, and she penetrated⁷⁴ as far across the continent as Chicago, where she was employed in one of the most prosperous business houses, earning a large salary. But, like many Californians, homesickness seized her, and before the year was out she was back, inveighing⁷⁵ against the eastern manners, character, and climate, and glad to shake down again into the family nest. Her sisters were satisfied with her account of her wanderings, not knowing that Bernice was as much of an adept⁷⁶ at telling half a story as she was at taking down a dictation in typewriting. She was too clever to be found out in a lie; they were altogether too simple to suspect her apparent frankness.
 
After the excursion she remained at home until her marriage. Her liaison⁷⁷ with Dominick was conducted with the utmost secrecy⁷⁸. Her sisters had not a suspicion of it, knew nothing but that the young man was attentive⁷⁹ to her, till she told them of her approaching marriage. This took place in the parlor of Hannah’s house, and the amazed sisters, bewildered by Berny’s glories, had waited to see her burst into the inner circles of fashion and wealth with a tiara of diamonds on her head and ropes of pearls about her throat. That no tiara was forthcoming, no pearls graced her bridal parure, and no Ryan ever crossed the threshold of her door, seemed to the loyal Hannah and Hazel the most unmerited and inexplicable⁸⁰ injustice⁸¹ that had ever come within their experience.
 
It took Bernice some time to dress, for she attached the greatest importance to all matters of personal adornment⁸², and the lunch hour was at hand when she alighted from the Hyde Street car and walked toward the house. It was on one of those streets which cross Hyde near the slope of Russian Hill, and are devoted⁸³ to the habitats of small, thrifty⁸⁴ householders. A staring, bright cleanliness is the prevailing⁸⁵ characteristic of the neighborhood, the cement sidewalks always swept, the houses standing⁸⁶ back in tiny squares of garden, clipped and trimmed to a precise shortness of grass and straightness of border. The sun was now broadly out and the house-fronts engarlanded with vines, their cream-colored faces spotless in fresh coats of paint, presented a line of uniform bay-windows to its ingratiating warmth. Hannah’s was the third, and its gleaming clearness of window-pane and the stainless⁸⁷ purity of its front steps were points of domestic decency⁸⁸ that its proprietor⁸⁹ insisted on as she did on the servant girl’s apron⁹⁰ being clean and the parlor free from dust.
 
Berny had retained her latch-key, and letting herself in passed into the dustless parlor which connected by folding doors with the dining-room beyond. Nothing had been changed in it since the days of her tenancy. The upright piano, draped with a China silk scarf, stood in the old corner. The solar print of her father hung over the mantelpiece on which a gilt⁹¹ clock and a pair of China dogs stood at accurately-measured distances. The tufted arm-chairs were placed far from each other, severely⁹² isolated⁹³ in the corners, as though the room were too remote and sacred even to suggest the cheerful amenities⁹⁴ of social intercourse⁹⁵. A curious, musty smell hung in the air. It recalled the past in which Dominick had figured as her admirer. The few times that he had been to her home she had received him in this solemn, unaired apartment in which the chandelier was lit for the occasion, and Hannah and Hazel had sat in the kitchen, breathless with curiosity as to what such a call might portend⁹⁶. She had been married here, in the bay-window, under a wedding bell of white roses. The musty smell brought it all back, even her sense of almost breathless elation⁹⁷, when the seal was set on her daring schemes.
 
From beyond the folding doors a sound of conversation and smitten⁹⁸ crockery arose, also a strong odor of cooking. The family were already at lunch, and opening the door Berny entered in upon the midday meal which was being partaken of by her two sisters, Josh, and Hazel’s daughter Pearl, a pretty child of eight.
 
Neither of her sisters resembled her in the least. Hannah was a woman who looked more than her age, with a large, calm face, and gentle, near-sighted eyes which blinked at the world behind a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. Her quarter-century of school teaching had not dried or stiffened⁹⁹ her. She was fuller of the milk of human kindness, of the ideals and enthusiasms of youth, than either of her sisters. All the love of her kindly¹⁰⁰, maternal¹⁰¹ nature was given to Pearl, whom she was bringing up carefully to be what seemed to Hannah best in woman.
 
Hazel was very pretty and still young. She had the fresh, even bloom of a Californian woman, a round, graceful¹⁰² figure, and glossy¹⁰³ brown hair, rippled¹⁰⁴ and arranged in an elaborate coiffure as though done by a hair-dresser. She could do this herself as she could make her own clothes, earn a fair salary at the milliner’s, and sing to the guitar in a small piping voice. Her husband was ravished by her good looks and accomplishments¹⁰⁵, and thought her the most wonderful woman in the world. He was a thin, tall, young man with stooping shoulders, a long, lean neck, and an amiable, insignificant¹⁰⁶ face. But he seemed to please Hazel, who had married him when she was nineteen, being haunted by the nightmare thought that if she did not take what chances offered, she might become an old maid like Hannah.
 
Berny sat down next to the child, conscious that under the pleasant friendliness¹⁰⁷ of their greetings a violent curiosity as to whether she had been to the ball burned in each breast. She had talked over her chances of going with them, and Hazel, whose taste in all such matters was excellent, had helped her order the dress. Now, drawing her plate toward her and shaking out her napkin, she began to eat her lunch, at once too sore and too perverse¹⁰⁸ to begin the subject. The others endured their condition of ignorance for some minutes, and then Hazel, finding that to wait was useless, approached the vital topic.
 
“Well, Berny, we’ve been looking over the list of guests at the ball in the morning papers and your name don’t seem to be down.”
 
“I don’t see why it should,” said Berny without looking up, “considering I wasn’t there.”
 
“You weren’t there!” ejaculated Hannah. “They didn’t ask you?”
 
“That’s right,” said Berny, breaking a piece of bread. “They didn’t ask me.”
 
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” exclaimed Josh. “That beats the Dutch!”
 
“I didn’t believe Mrs. Ryan would do that,” said Hannah, so pained that her generally observant eye took no note of the fact that Pearl was putting her fingers in her plate. “You’re as good as her own flesh and blood, too,—her son’s wife. It’s not Christian¹⁰⁹, and I don’t understand it.”
 
“It’s tough,” said Josh, “that’s what it is, tough!”
 
“If I were you,” said Hazel with spirit, “husband or no husband, I’d never want to go inside that house or have any dealings with that crowd again. If they were down on their knees to me I’d never go near them. Just think what it would be if Josh’s mother thought herself too good to know me! I’d like to know what I’d feel about it.”
 
“But she wouldn’t, dearie,” said Josh placatingly¹¹⁰. “She’d be proud to have you related to her.”
 
“I guess she’d better be,” said Hazel, fixing an indignant glare on her spouse¹¹¹. “She’d find she’d barked up the wrong tree if she wasn’t.”
 
Considering that Josh’s mother had been dead for twelve years and in her lifetime had been a meek¹¹² and unassuming woman who let lodgings¹¹³, Hazel’s proud repudiation¹¹⁴ at her possible scorn seemed a profitless wasting of fires, and Josh forthwith turned the conversation back to the ball.
 
“Perhaps they did send you an invitation,” he said to Berny, “and it got lost in the mails. That does happen, you know.”
 
Berny’s cheeks, under the faint bloom of rouge¹¹⁵ that covered them, flamed a sudden, dusky red. She had never been open with these simple relations of hers and she was not going to begin now. But she felt shame as she thought of Dominick’s humiliating quest for the invitation that was refused.
 
“Oh, no,” she said hurriedly. “It wasn’t sent, that’s all. Mrs. Ryan won’t have me in the house. That’s the fact and there’s no use trying to get round it. Well, she can do without me. I seem able to support my existence without her.”
 
Her tone and manner, marked by a sort of hard bravado¹¹⁶, did not deceive her sisters, who had that extreme naïveté in expressing their intimate feelings which is peculiar⁶⁷ to Californians. They looked at her with commiserating¹¹⁷ sympathy, not quite comprehending her attitude of independence, but feeling sorry for her, whatever pose she adopted.
 
“And your dress,” said Hazel, “what will you do with that? When will you ever wear it—a regular ball-dress like that?”
 
“Oh, I’ll wear it,” said Berny with an air of having quantities of social opportunities not known by her sisters. “It won’t be a loss.”
 
“You could put a guimpe in and have sleeves to the elbow and wear it to the theater. With a white hat with plumes¹¹⁸ it would be a dead swell¹¹⁹ costume. And if you met any of the Ryans they’d see you were holding up your end of the line and not quite ready yet to go to the alms-house.”
 
Hannah shook her head.
 
“I don’t see how she could do that—transparent neck and all. I don’t think that’s the kind of dress to wear in a theater. It’s too sort of conspicuous¹²⁰.”
 
“I think Hannah’s right,” said Josh solemnly, nodding at Berny. “It don’t seem to me the right thing for a lady. Looks fast.”
 
“What do you know about it, Josh McCrae?” said Hazel pugnaciously¹²¹. “You’re a clerk in a jewelry store.”
 
“Maybe I am,” retorted Josh, “but I guess that don’t prevent me from knowing when a thing looks fast. Clerks in jewelry stores ain’t such gummers as you might think. And, anyway, I don’t see that being a clerk in any kind of a store has anything to do with it.”
 
Hazel was saved the effort of making a crushing repartee¹²², by Pearl, who had been silently eating her lunch, now suddenly launching a remark into the momentary¹²³ pause.
 
“Did Uncle Dominick go to the ball?” she asked, raising a pair of limpid¹²⁴ blue eyes to Berny’s face.
 
An instantaneous, significant silence fell on the others, and all eyes turned inquiringly to Berny. Her air of cool control became slightly exaggerated.
 
“No, he stayed at home with me,” she replied, picking daintily at the meat on her plate.
 
“But I suppose he felt real hurt and annoyed,” said Hannah. “He couldn’t have helped it.”
 
Berny did not reply. She knew that she must sooner or later tell her sisters of Dominick’s strange departure. They would find it out otherwise and suspect more than she wanted them to know. They, like the rest of the world, had no idea that Berny’s brilliant marriage was not the domestic success it appeared on the surface. She moved her knife and fork with an arranging hand, and, as Hazel started to speak, said with as careless an air as she could assume,
 
“Dominick’s gone. He left this morning.”
 
The news had even more of an effect than she had expected. Her four companions stared at her in wonderment. A return of the dread³⁹ and depression of the morning came upon her when she saw their surprise. She felt her heart sink as it had done when she read his note.
 
“Gone where?” exclaimed Hazel. This was the test question and Berny had schooled herself in an answer in the car coming up.
 
“Oh, up into the country,” she said nonchalantly. “He’s worn out. They work the life out of him in that horrible bank. He’s getting insomnia¹²⁵ and thought he’d better take a change now before he got run completely down, so he left this morning and I’m a gay grass widow.”
 
She laughed and drank some water. Her laugh did not sound to her own ears convincing and she was aware that, while Hannah was evidently satisfied by her explanation, Hazel was eying her ponderingly.
 
“Well, if he’s got insomnia,” said Hannah, “he’d better take his holiday right now. That’s the best thing to do. Take it in the beginning. Before father took ill——”
 
Here Josh interrupted her, as Hannah’s reminiscences of the late contractor’s last illness were long and exhaustive.
 
“Where’d you say he’d gone?” he queried¹²⁶.
 
“I can’t remember the name,” Berny answered with skilfully-assumed indifference; “somewhere down toward Santa Cruz and Monterey, some new place. And he may not stay there. If he doesn’t like it, he’ll just move around from place to place.”
 
“Why didn’t you go, too?” said Pearl.
 
This was the second question Berny had dreaded¹²⁷. Now suddenly she felt her throat contract and her lips quiver. Her usually iron nerve had been shaken by her passion of the night before and the shock of the morning. The unwonted sensations of gloom and apprehension closed in on her again, and this time made her feel weak and tearful.
 
“I didn’t want to. I hate moving round,” she said, pushing her chair back from the table. Her voice was a little hoarse¹²⁸, and suddenly feeling the sting of tears under her eyelids¹²⁹ she raised her hands to her hat and began to fumble¹³⁰ with her veil. “Why should I leave my comfortable flat to go trailing round in a lot of half-built hotels? That sort of thing doesn’t appeal to me at all. I like my own cook, and my own bed, and my own bath-tub. I’m more of an old maid than Hannah. Well, so long, people. I must be traveling.”
 
She laid her napkin on the table and jumped up with an assumption of brisk liveliness. She paid no attention to the expostulations of her relatives, but going to the glass arranged her hat and put on her gloves. When she turned back to the table she had regained¹³¹ possession of herself. Her veil was down and through it her cheeks looked unusually flushed, and her dark eyes, with their slanting¹³² outer corners, brighter and harder than ever. She hurried through her good-bys on the plea that she had shopping to do, and almost ran out of the house, leaving a trail of perfumery and high, artificial laughter behind her.
 
For the next week she waited for news from Dominick and none came. It was a trying seven days. Added to her harassment¹³³ of mind, the loneliness of the flat was almost unendurable. There was no one to speak to, no one to share her anxieties. Her position was unusually friendless. When her marriage had lifted her from the ranks of working women she had shown so cold a face to her old companions that they had dropped away from her, realizing that she wished to cut all ties with the world of her humble¹³⁴ beginnings. New friends had been hard to make. The wives of some of the bank officials, and odd, aspiring⁷² applicants¹³⁵ for such honors as would accrue¹³⁶ from even this remote connection with the august name of Ryan, were all she had found wherewith to make a circle and a visiting list.
 
But she was intimate with none of them and was now too worried to seek the society of mere acquaintances. She ate her solitary¹³⁷ meals in oppressive silence, feeling the Chinaman’s eyes fixed¹³⁸ upon her in ironic¹³⁹ disbelief of the story she had told him to account for Dominick’s absence. Eat as slowly as she would, her dinner could not be made to occupy more than twenty minutes, and after that there was the long evening, the interminable evening, to be passed. She was a great reader of newspapers, and when she returned from her afternoon shopping she brought a bundle of evening papers home in her hand. She would read these slowly, at first the important items, then go over them for matters of less moment, and finally scan the advertisements. But even with this occupation the evenings were of a vast, oppressive emptiness, and her worries crowded in upon her, when, the papers lying round her feet in a sea of billowing, half-folded sheets, she sat motionless, the stillness of the empty flat and the deserted¹⁴⁰ street lying round her like an expression of her own blank depression.
 
At the end of the week she felt that she must find out something, and went to the bank. It was her intention to cash a small check and over this transaction see if the paying teller¹⁴¹ would vouchsafe¹⁴² any information about Dominick. She pushed the check through the opening and, as the man counted out the money, said glibly¹⁴³,
 
“Do you hear anything of my wandering husband?”
 
The teller pushed the little pile of silver and gold through the window toward her and leaning forward, said, with the air of one who intends to have a leisurely¹⁴⁴ moment of talk,
 
“No, we haven’t. Isn’t it our place to come to you for that? We were wondering where he’d gone at such a season.”
 
Berny’s delicately-gloved fingers made sudden haste to gather up the coins.
 
“Oh, he’s just loafing about,” she said as easily as was consistent with the disappointment and alarm that gripped her. “He’s just wandering round from place to place. He was getting insomnia and wanted a change of scene.”
 
She snapped the clasp of her purse before the man could ask her further questions, nodded her good-bys, and turned from the window. Her face changed as she emerged on the wide, stone steps that led to the street. It was pinched and pale, two lines drawn¹⁴⁵ between the eyebrows¹⁴⁶. She descended¹⁴⁷ the steps slowly, the flood of magnificent sunshine having no warming influence upon the chill that had seized upon her. Many of the passing throng¹⁴⁸ of men looked at her—a pretty woman in her modishly-made dress of tan-colored cloth and her close-fitting brown turban with a bunch of white paradise feathers at one side. Under her dotted veil her carefully made-up complexion¹⁴⁹ looked naturally clear and rosy¹⁵⁰, and her eyes, accentuated by a dark line beneath them, were in attractive contrast to her reddened hair. But she was not thinking of herself or the admiration she evoked¹⁵¹, a subject which was generally of overpowering interest. Matters of more poignant¹⁵² moment had crowded all else from her mind.
 
The next week began and advanced and still no news from Dominick. He had been gone fourteen days, when one evening in her perusal¹⁵³ of the paper she saw his name. Her trembling hands pressed the sheet down on the table, and her eyes devoured¹⁵⁴ the printed lines. It was one of the many short despatches that had come from the foot-hill mining towns on the recent storms in the Sierra. It was headed Rocky Bar and contained a description of the situation at Antelope¹⁵⁵ and the snow-bound colony there. Its chief item of information was that Bill Cannon¹⁵⁶ and his daughter were among the prisoners in Perley’s Hotel. A mention was made, only a line or two, of Dominick’s walk from Rocky Bar, but it was treated lightly and gave no idea of the real seriousness of that almost fatal excursion.
 
Berny read the two short paragraphs many times, and her spirits went up like the needle of a thermometer when the quicksilver is grasped in a warm hand. Her relief was intense, easeful and relaxing, as the sudden cessation of a pain. Not only was Dominick at last found, but he was found in a place as far removed from his own family and its influences as he was from her. And best of all he was shut up, incarcerated¹⁵⁷, with Bill Cannon, the Bonanza¹⁵⁸ King. What might not come of it? Berny was not glad of the quarrel, but it seemed a wonderful piece of luck that that unpleasant episode should have sent him into the very arms of the man that she had always wanted him to cultivate and who was the best person in the world for him to impress favorably. If Bill Cannon, who had been a friend of his father’s, took a fancy to Dominick, there was no knowing what might happen. In a sudden reaction of relief and hope Berny saw them almost adopted children of the Bonanza King, flouting¹⁵⁹ the Ryans in the pride of their new-found honors.
 
It made her feel lenient¹⁶⁰ to Dominick, whose indifference and neglect had put her to the torments¹⁶¹ of the last fortnight. After all, he could not have let her know his whereabouts. The wires were only just up, and the rural mail-carrier had not yet been able to effect an entrance into the snow-bound town. Why Dominick had chosen to go in this direction and had attempted an impossible walk in a heavy snowstorm Berny did not know, nor just now care much. A sensation as near remorse¹⁶² and tenderness as she could feel possessed her. Under its softening¹⁶³ influence—spurred to generosity¹⁶⁴ and magnanimity by the lifting of the weight of anxiety—she decided that she would write to him. She would write him a letter which would smooth out the difficulties between them and bring him home ready to forgive and be once more his old self, kind, quiet, and indulgent, as he had been in the first year of their marriage.
 
Then and there, without further waiting, she wrote the letter. It ran as follows:
 
“My Dear Husband:—I have only just seen in the paper where you are, and, oh, the relief! For two weeks now I have been half crazy, wondering about you, waiting to hear from you. And nothing ever came. Dominick, dear, if you had seen me sitting here alone in the den¹² every evening, thinking and waiting, looking at the clock and listening all the time, even when I was trying to read—listening for your footsteps which never came—you would have felt very sorry for me; even you, who were so angry that you left me without a word. It’s just been hell this last two weeks. You may not think by the way I acted that I would have cared, but I did, I do. If I didn’t love you would I mind how your people treated me? That’s what makes it so hard, because I love you and want you to be happy with me, and it’s dreadful for me to see them always getting in between us, till sometimes lately I have felt they were going to separate us altogether.
 
“Oh, my dear husband, don’t let that happen! Don’t let them drive me away from you! If I have been bad-humored and unreasonable¹⁶⁵, I have had to bear a lot. I am sorry for the past. I am sorry for what I said to you that night, and for turning on the gas and scratching the bed. I am ready to acknowledge that I was wrong, and was mean and hateful. And now you ought to be ready to forgive me and forget it all. Come back to me. Please come back. Don’t be angry with me. I am your wife. You chose me of your own free will. That I loved you so that I forgot honor and public opinion and had no will but yours, you know better than any one else in the world. It isn’t every man, Dominick, that gets that kind of love. I gave it then and I’ve never stopped giving it, though I’ve often been so put upon and enraged¹⁶⁶ that I’ve said things I didn’t mean and done things I’ve been ready to kill myself for. Here I am now, waiting for you, longing¹⁶⁷ for you. Come back to me.
 
Your loving wife,
Berny.”
 
She read the letter over several times and it pleased her greatly. So anxious was she to have it go as soon as possible that, though it was past ten, she took it out herself and posted it in the letter-box at the corner.