“There, there, sweetheart, I’ll have you out of this in a jiffy,” Jack was at my side, helping me to rise, getting me into my coat, shielding me from the curious gaze of the other diners.

“Here!” He threw a bill toward the waiter.  “Pay my bill out of that, get us a taxi quick, and keep the change.  Hurry.”

“Yes, sir—­thank you, sir.”  The waiter dashed ahead of us.  As we emerged from the door he was standing proudly by the open door of a taxi.

“Where to, sir?” The chauffeur touched his cap.

“Anywhere.  Central Park.”  Jack helped me in, sat down beside me, the door slammed and the taxi rolled away.

The only other time in my life Jack had seen me cry was when my mother died.  Then I had wept my grief out on his shoulder secure in the knowledge of his brotherly love.  As the taxi started, he slipped his arm around me.

“Whatever it is, dear, cry it out in my arms,” he whispered.

But at his touch I shuddered, and drew myself away.  I was Dicky’s wife.  This situation was intolerable.  I must end it at once.  With a mighty effort, I controlled my sobs and, wiping my eyes, sat upright.

“Dear, dear boy,” I said.  “Please forgive me.  I never thought of this or I would have told you over the telephone.”

“Told me what?” Jack’s voice was harsh and quick.  His arm dropped from my wrist.

There was no use wasting words in the telling.  I took courage in both hands.

“I am married, Jack,” I said faintly.  “I have been married over a month.”

“God!” The expletive seemed forced from his lips.  I heard the name uttered that way once before, when a man I knew had been told of his child’s death in an automobile accident.  It made me realize as nothing else could what Jack must be suffering.

But he gave no other sign of having heard my words, simply sat erect, with folded arms, gazing sternly into vacancy, while the taxi rolled up Fifth avenue.

Huddled miserably in my corner, I waited for him to speak.  I had summoned courage to tell him the truth, but I could not have spoken to him again while his face held that frozen look.  It frightened and fascinated me at the same time.

A queer little wonder crossed my mind.  Suppose I had known of this a year ago.  Would I have married Jack, and never known Dicky?  Would I have been happier so?

Then there rushed over me the realization that nothing in the world mattered but Dicky.  I wanted him, oh how I wanted him!  Jack’s suffering, everything else, were but shadows.  My love for my husband, my need of him—­these were the only real things.

I turned to Jack wildly.

“Oh, Jack, I must go home!”

“Margaret.”  Jack’s voice was so different from his usual one that I started almost in fear.

“Yes, Jack.”

“I don’t want you to reproach yourself about this.  I understand, dear.  The right man came along, and of course you couldn’t wait for me to come back to give my sanction.”