If she had not been old, in feeble health and my husband’s mother, I would have considered the words scant reparation for the contemptuous phrases with which she had scourged my spirit a few moments before.

But I was sane enough to know that the simple “I beg your pardon” from the lips of the elder Mrs. Graham was equivalent to a whole torrent of apologies from any ordinary person.  I knew my mother-in-law’s type of mind.  To admit she was wrong, to ask for one’s forgiveness, was to her a most bitter thing.

So I put aside from me every other feeling but consideration of the proud old woman holding my hand, and said gently: 

“I can assure you that I cherish no resentment.  Let us not speak of it again.”

“I am afraid we shall have to speak of it, at least of the incident which led me to say the things to you I did,” she returned.  I saw with amazement that she was trying to conquer an emotion, the reason for which I felt certain had something to do with her discovery that the Underwoods were Dick’s friends.

“I have a duty to you to perform,” she went on, “a very painful duty, which involves the reviving of an old controversy with my son.  I beg that you will not try to find out anything concerning its nature.  It is far better that you do not.”

I felt smothered, as if I were being swathed in folds upon folds of black cloth.  What could this mystery be, this secret in the past friendship of my husband and Lillian Gale, the woman whom he had introduced to me as his best friend, and into whose companionship and that of her husband, Harry Underwood, he had thrown me as much as possible.

A hot anger rose within me.  What right had anyone to deny knowledge of such a secret, or to discourage me in any attempt to find out its nature.  I resolved to lose no time in probing the unworthy thing to its depths.

My mother-in-law’s next words crystallized my determination.

“I think I ought to see Richard at once,” she said.  “I am sorry to give up our trip.  I had quite counted upon seeing some of old New York today, but I wish to lose no time in seeing him.  Besides, I do not think I am equal to further sightseeing.”

“It will be of no use for you to go home,” I said smoothly, “for Richard will not be there, and he has left the studio by now, I am sure.  He has an engagement with an art editor this afternoon.  We may not be able to look at the churches you wished to see, but you ought to have some luncheon before we go home.  I will call a cab and we will go over to Fraunces’s Tavern, one of the most interesting places in New York.  You know Washington said farewell to his officers in the long room on the second floor.”

The first part of my sentence was a deliberate falsehood.  I had no reason to believe Dicky would not be at his studio all day, but I had resolved that no one should speak to my husband on the subject of the secret which his past and that of Lillian Gale shared until I had had a chance to talk to him about it.