“’You ought to work.  You aren’t happy doing nothing.  I’ve arranged something for you.’

“I raised my head in amazement, as she continued, clapping her hands with delight: 

“’I’ve talked it all over with papa.  You’ll go into his office.  You’ll do big things.  He’s quite enthusiastic, and I promised for you.’

“I went.  I became interested.  I stayed.  Now I am like any other man, domesticated, conservative, living my life, and she has not the slightest idea of what she has killed.”

“Let us go in,” said Herkimer, rising.

“And you say I could have left a name?” said Rantoul, bitterly.

“You were wrong to tell me all this,” said Herkimer.

“I owed you the explanation.  What could I do?”

“Lie.”

“Why?”

“Because, after such a confidence, it is impossible for you ever to see me again.  You know it.”

“Nonsense.  I—­”

“Let’s go back.”

Full of dull anger and revolt, Herkimer led the way.  Rantoul, after a few steps, caught him by the sleeve.

“Don’t take it too seriously, Britt.  I don’t revolt any more.  I’m no longer the Rantoul you knew.”

“That’s just the trouble,” said Herkimer, cruelly.

When their steps sounded near, Mrs. Rantoul rose hastily, spilling her silk and needles on the floor.  She gave her husband a swift, searching look, and said with her flattering smile: 

“Mr. Herkimer, you must be a very interesting talker.  I am quite jealous.”

“I am rather tired,” he answered, bowing.  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go off to bed.”

“Really?” she said, raising her eyes.  She extended her hand, and he took it with almost the physical repulsion with which one would touch the hand of a criminal.  The next morning he left.

III

When Herkimer had finished, he shrugged his shoulders, gave a short laugh, and, glancing at the clock, went off in his curt, purposeful manner.

“Well, by Jove!” said Steingall, recovering first from the spell of the story, “doesn’t that prove exactly what I said?  They’re jealous, they’re all jealous, I tell you, jealous of everything you do.  All they want us to do is to adore them.  By Jove!  Herkimer’s right.  Rantoul was the biggest of us all.  She murdered him just as much as though she had put a knife in him.”

“She did it on purpose,” said De Gollyer.  “There was nothing childlike about her, either.  On the contrary, I consider her a clever, a devilishly clever woman.”

“Of course she did.  They’re all clever, damn them!” said Steingall, explosively.  “Now, what do you say, Quinny?  I say that an artist who marries might just as well tie a rope around his neck and present it to his wife and have it over.”

“On the contrary,” said Quinny, with a sudden inspiration reorganizing his whole battle front, “every artist should marry.  The only danger is that he may marry happily.”