“Help me! help me, O God, to do what is right!” she prayed in dumb agony. And the question came up inexorably before her, vast, overpowering, not to be solved. Right!--what was right?
An insignificant-looking little woman of the lower middle-class stood on the threshold, nervously agitated, her eyes wild with alarm.
“My husband?” she asked, breathlessly. “Mr. Durham?”
“He’s here,” replied Mrs. Satterthwaite, coldly. “This way.”
She led her to the drawing-room and Harry Tremaine’s two wives entered together, the one beautiful, refined, exquisitely dressed--the other commonplace, dowdy, the cheaply attired product of a cheap city suburb, good-hearted vulgarity in every line of her. Mrs. Satterthwaite looked from the man who had been her husband to the woman who was now his wife--and her heart turned suddenly to stone.
“Here is Mr. Durham,” she said. With something of a shock, Satterthwaite admired her consummate ease of manner.
The little woman had rushed forward to her husband.
“Oh, Ed, Ed!” she cried, ignoring Satterthwaite, who stood up politely. “What is the matter?--You’re not hurt?--Not badly?”
“I’m all right, dear,” he said, embracing her. “I’ll tell you all about it presently. These kind people took me in and looked after me.”
“Oh, thank you so much!” she said, effusively. “It _is_ good of you!--And I don’t know what _would_ have happened if anything serious had gone wrong with Ed to-night!--You see, we’re sailing for Buenos Ayres to-morrow! And he’s got such a good post--an agency--and if anything had prevented his going----”
“Never mind that, my dear,” said Durham, cutting short her loquacity. “These kind people do not want to go into our private affairs. Come along. I’ve inconvenienced them enough already.” He held out his hand to Mrs. Satterthwaite. “Good-bye, madam--and many thanks.”
She looked him in the eyes as she took his hand. They were the eyes of a stranger.
“Good-bye, Mr. Durham,” she said, and turned away.
Satterthwaite escorted the couple to the door.
“Your hat is here,” he said, as he took it off the clothes-peg where Tremaine had hung it. “Good-bye.--Good-bye, Mr. Durham.--What boat do you sail by to-morrow?” The enquiry was in the most casual tone of courteous interest.