It was a strange thing that Norma had selected to paint; heavy sprays of mingled nightshade and monkshood on a ground the color of a fading leaf; but, strange as it was, it was the most beautiful of them all.  There were flowers in the room and the perfume of heliotrope and roses filled the air.  The piano was open and on it one of the popular songs of the day; a loud, garish thing.  Ethel liked what she called “bright music;” on the keys lay a tumbled lace handkerchief, and on the floor, close to the pedal of the instrument, was a man’s driving glove.

Over the piano hung the portrait of a lady with soft, gray hair, and the expression of purity and love which medieval painters gave to their saints.  It was a picture of Thorne’s mother and it hurt him to see it there.  He determined to have it removed as soon as possible.

The door opened and Mrs. Thorne entered, feeling herself terribly ill-used and persecuted, in that her husband had elected to come to her in person, instead of availing himself of the simpler and more agreeable mode of communication through their lawyers.  It was quite possible that he would make himself disagreeable.  Mrs. Thorne shrank from any thing disagreeable, and had no tolerance for sarcasms addressed to herself.  She would have refused the interview had she dared, but in her heart she was dimly afraid of her husband.

Thorne bowed coldly, and then placed a chair for her on the hearth-rug.  “Sit down,” he said, “I want to talk to you,” and then he seated himself opposite her.

For awhile he did not speak; somehow the words he had come to say stuck in his throat; it was so cold-blooded for them, husband and wife, to sit there beside their own hearth and discuss their final separation.  A log, which had burned in half, fell and rolled forward on the marble hearth, sending little puffs of gray smoke into the room.  He reached past her for the tongs and laid the log back in its place, and the little action seemed to seal his lips more closely.  The tiny clock on the carved oak mantle chimed the hour in soft, low tones; he counted the strokes as they fell, one, two, and so on up to twelve.  The winter sunshine streamed in between the parting of the curtains and made a glory of his wife’s golden hair.

Ethel was the first to speak.  “You got my letter?” she questioned, keeping her eyes fixed on the fire.

“Yes; that is the reason I’m here.”

The broken log was blazing again quite merrily, the two ends far apart.

“Why not have written instead of coming?” she demanded, as one who protested against some grievous injury; “it would have been far pleasanter for both.  There’s no sense in our harassing ourselves with personal interviews.”

“I preferred a personal interview.”

Ethel lapsed into silence; the man was a hopeless brute, and it was useless to expect courtesy from him.  She tapped her foot against the fender, and a look of obstinacy and temper disfigured the soft outlines of her face.  The silence might remain unbroken until the crack of doom for any further effort she would make.