{ { di|OME wait at the crossroads of life for the finger of Fate to point the path and then meekly follow directions. Some, when the Great Indicator reveals itself, are moved to passionate and, not infrequently, successful opposition. Others hesitate until propelled onward by the shove of Circumstance or the boot of Necessity—but once in a blue moon there is one who
Ann Quartel suddenly found herself at the parting of the ways. At least Paul had paid her the compliment of frankness. He had elucidated his position without care for her hurt. He had,in fact, dwelt with unction upon “his duty to the other woman,” At this juncture Ann laughed, and her husband stared at her, evidently wondering whether this was hysteria or scorn. It was neither. Ann was remembering this peculiarity of the masculine mind. She had met it before when called in to prescribe for friends With matrimonial complications. Later in the conversation she did not laugh. She was nearer tears.
“You've never had children, you know,” he said judicially. “Of course, that isn't your fault.”
“I've often suggested adoption,” she answered dully. And his shrug dismissed her statement as it had often before dismissed the plea.
“I want my own, my own,” he repeated sullenly.
“That is nothing but vanity,” she countered. “If you honestly wished 'to know hereditary traits,' and, as you say, 'feel a personal and private blood interest,' we could long ago have taken your brother's orphans.”
She had read him aright, and his resentment flashed. Had he not felt the necessity of his wife's coöperation with his plans, he would have flamed to insult and ridicule. But he dared not.
“Of course—you don't understand. But the fact remains, that we, Miss McGrain and myself, have agreed to marry. It rests with you whether we can do this with decency and legality, or whether we shall be forced into illegality. We shall be very grateful for your help and understanding.”
She stared at him. This man she had known for twenty years, whose wife she had been for ten! And how greatly she had loved him! She had loved his beauty and his charm of manner, his delicacy and nicety of taste in all things. She had loved all the outer manifestations, but the mind and heart and the soul of him she realized she had never known.
They were alone in her private office, the sanctum of that great business she had been brought up in, inherited, developed, and lifted to its present international importance—the great industry which was an expression of herself, the industry with which she had striven to endow her husband. She sat at her mahogany desk, her fingers buried in the masses of her ash-blond hair, her troubled, sapphire eyes fixed on the quadruple inkwell before her. On the other side of the slab of varnished wood—and on the other side of the world—stood Paul Quartel, like an employee awaiting his discharge. She looked him over, as if, indeed, this were the case, silently weighing his failure. She could not help analyzing; it was second nature to her. She realized that his winning boyishness really indicated dependence mixed with a youthful disdain for experience. She had loved his good looks, had always been acutely conscious of his physical appearance. For his handsome face and alert, graceful figure she had spent herself and her life.
He was but a boy in mind and initiation. He had need of her strength. What would he accomplish without her? Nothing. He had fallen in love with the youthful loveliness of a girl. How long would it last? Not long, she felt sure. Now he was flattered, and she knew the height and depth of his vanity. He would need her, need her sorely in the days to come. What would he do with that cheap, gaudy female? He was incapable of directing her or himself.
The moments lengthened, till, unable to bear the tension any longer, he exploded:
“For God's sake! Ann, stop mussing your hair!”
She sat up as if jerked erect in her chair. In a flash of realization she covered a whole continent of logical deductions.
If her personal peculiarities had become so distasteful to him, it was, indeed, the end. His angry exclamation was the pointing finger of Fate.
“All right, Paul,” she said quickly “I'll not block the game. Now, if you'll go, I'll think things out. You'll be going over to Ironton, I suppose, to tell her the result of our interview. Take the car, if you like. I'll have Madison run me up to the house in the flivver. Sorry to have to ask you to continue the negotiations with the Chrome Steel Company. Be in the office around ten to-morrow, when Cadman comes. I have to be at the flume. Report to me at two.”