“Suppose you marry again, yourself.  What about the child then?  You are very hard and uncompromising in your dictation to me, Nesbit, but I can have feelings and scruples as well as you.”

Thorne was startled.  He considered that he was behaving well to his wife.  He wanted to behave well to her; to let the past go generously, so that no shadow of reproach from it might fall upon the future.  Her tart suggestion set the affair in a new light.  It was an unpleasant light, and he turned his back on it, thinking that by so doing he disposed of it.  There was the distance of the two poles between Pocahontas Mason and Cecil Cumberland. He surely was the best judge of what would conduce to the welfare of his son.

“We were discussing the probability of your re-marriage, not mine,” he responded coldly; “the reports in circulation have reached even me at last.”

“What reports?” with defiant inquiry.

“That you are seeking freedom from your allegiance to one man, in order to swear fealty to another.  That your vows to me are irksome because they prevent your taking other vows to Cecil Cumberland.  I pass over the moral aspect of the affair; that must rest with your own conscience,” (it is astonishing how exemplary Thorne felt in administering the rebuke); “that rests with your conscience,” he repeated, “and with that I’ve nothing to do.  The existence of such reports—­which lays your conduct as a married woman open to censure—­gives me the right to dictate the terms of our legal separation.  I’m obliged to speak plainly, Ethel.  You brought about the issue, and must abide by the consequences.  I’ve stated my terms and it’s for you to accept or decline them.”

Thorne leaned back in his chair and watched the flames eat into the heart of the hickory logs.  He had no doubt of her decision, but he awaited it courteously.  The broken log had burned completely away, and a little heap of whity-gray ashes lay on each side of the hearth.

Ethel sat and pondered, weighing at full value all the advantages and disadvantages of the proposal and deciding that the former outweighed the latter.  The object on which she was bent—­the thing which appeared the greatest earthly good, was the divorce.  At any cost, she would obtain that, and obtain it as quickly and quietly as possible; no talk, no exposure, no disagreeable comments.  This was the main point, and to carry it, Ethel Thorne felt herself capable of more than the surrender of one small child.  The separation at worst would only be partial; she could see the boy every day if she wished—­even after her marriage with Cecil Cumberland.  Nesbit had promised, and in all her experience of him she had never known him break his word.  Then she could retain the little fellow until all these troublesome affairs should be settled, which would disarm criticism and save appearances, and appearances must be preserved on account of the Cumberlands.