“But why do the family oppose it?” persisted Mrs. Smith.  A warning look from her daughter admonished her to let the matter rest; that there were facts connected with Mr. Cumberland’s marriage, the investigation and discussion of which had better be postponed.  Mrs. Smith’s tongue burned with inquiries, but she bravely held them back, and sought to produce a diversion by idle conjectures about Percival.

Norma parried the curiosity of the others adroitly, and declining any more breakfast, betook herself and her letter to the back parlor, where she drew a deep arm-chair to the fire, and settled herself comfortably to re-peruse that portion of her friend’s epistle, which related to Cecil Cumberland’s affairs.

Thorne presently followed her, and established himself opposite.  He was great friends with Norma; once, in the days before his marriage, there had appeared a likelihood of their becoming more than friends.  All that had been forgotten by the man; the woman’s memory was more tenacious.  They were wonderfully good friends still, these two; they never worried or jarred on one another.

Thorne, having no special desire to read his own letters, lighted a cigar, stirred the fire to a glorious blaze, and waxed conversational.  The theme he selected for discussion was the topic introduced and interdicted at the breakfast table a few moments previously—­the debatable engagement of their New York acquaintance.  On this subject he chose to exhibit an unusual—­and as Norma felt, unnecessary, degree of curiosity.  He cross-questioned the girl vigorously, and failing to elicit satisfactory replies, laughingly accused her of an attempt to earn a cheap notoriety by the elaboration of a petty mystery.

“I wish you’d stop trying to put me on the witness stand, Nesbit!” she exclaimed in vexation; “why don’t you read your own letters?  One is from Ethel, I know.  See what she says.”

Thorne took his wife’s missive from his pocket, opened, and glanced through it hurriedly; then turned back to the first page, and re-read it more carefully, the expression of his face hardening into cynicism, slightly dashed with disgust.  The letter was penned in a large running hand and covered eight pages of dainty cream-laid paper.  It was rambling in phraseology, and lachrymose in tone, but it indicated a want, and made that want clear.

It was—­divorce.

Mrs. Thorne gave no special reason for desiring release from her marriage vows; she dwelt at length on her “lonely and unprotected” condition, and was very sorry for herself, and considered her case a hard one; suggesting blame to her husband in that he had not taken the necessary steps for her release long before.  She intimated that he had been selfish and lacking in proper consideration for her in leaving it to her to take the initial steps in the matter.  He should have arranged about the divorce at the time of the separation, she said, and so have spared her annoyance.  As he had not done so, she hoped he would show some consideration for her now, and help her to arrange the disagreeable business as speedily and privately as possible.  He really owed her indulgence “after all that had passed”; the last words were heavily underscored.