"No."
"Well, then," her breath came unsteadily, "what was there in me to make you think I would accept it?"
He did not reply.
"Answer me. This is the time to answer me."
"The answer is simple enough," he said in a low voice. "Together we had made a failure of partnership. When that partnership was dissolved, there remained the joint capital to be divided. And I divided it. Why not?"
"That capital was yours in the beginning; not mine. What I had of my own you never controlled; and I took it with me when I went."
"It was very little," he said.
"What of that? Did that concern you? Did you think I would have accepted anything from you? A thousand times I have been on the point of notifying you through attorney that the deposit now standing in my name is at your disposal."
"Why didn't you notify me then?" he asked, reddening to the temples.
"BecauseI did not wish to hurt youby doing it that way. . . . And I had not the courage to say it kindly over my own signature. That is why, Captain Selwyn."
And, as he remained silent: "That is what I had to say; not allbecauseI wish toto thank you for offering it. . . . You did not have very much, either; and you divided what you had. So I thank youand I return it.". . . The tension forced her to attempt a laugh. "So we stand once more on equal terms; unless you have anything of mine to return"
"I have your photograph," he said.
The silence lasted until he straightened up and, rubbing the fog from the window glass, looked out.
"We are in the Park," he remarked, turning toward her.
"Yes; I did not know how long it might take to explain matters. You are free of me now whenever you wish."
He picked up the telephone, hesitated: "Home?" he inquired with an effort. And at the forgotten word they looked at one another in stricken silence.
"Y-yes; to your home first, if you will let me drop you there"
"Thank you; that might be imprudent."
"No, I think not. You say you are living at the Gerards?"
"Yes, temporarily. But I've already taken another place."
"Where?"
"Oh, it's only a bachelor's kennela couple of rooms"
"Where, please?"
"Near Lexington and Sixty-sixth. I could go there; it's only partly furnished yet"
"Then tell Hudson to drive there."
"Thank you, but it is not necessary"
"Please let me; tell Hudson, or I will."
"You are very kind," he said; and gave the order.
Silence grew between them like a wall. She lay back in her corner, swathed to the eyes in her white furs; he in his corner sat upright, arms loosely folded, staring ahead at nothing. After a while he rubbed the moisture from the pane again.
"Still in the Park! He must have driven us nearly to Harlem Mere. It is the Mere! See the café lights yonder. It all looks rather gay through the snow."
"Very gay," she said, without moving. And, a moment later: "Will you tell me something? . . . You see"with a forced laugh"I can't keep my mindfrom it."
"From what?" he asked.
"Thetragedy; ours."
"It has ceased to be that; hasn't it?"
"Has it? You saidyou said that w-what I did to you was n-not as terrible as what I d-did to myself."
"That is true," he admitted grimly.
"Well, then, may I ask my question?"
"Ask it, child."
"Thenare you happy?"
He did not answer.
"Because I desire it, Philip. I want you to be. You will be, won't you? I did not dream that I was ruining your army career when Iwent mad"
"How did it happen, Alixe?" he asked, with a cold curiosity that chilled her. "How did it come about?wretched as we seemed to be togetherunhappy, incapable of understanding each other"
"Phil! There were days"
He raised his eyes.
"You speak only of the unhappy ones," she said; "but there were moments"
"Yes; I know it. And so I ask you, why?"
"Phil, I don't know. There was that last bitter quarrelthe night you left for Leyte after the dance. . . . Iit all grew suddenly intolerable. You seemed so horribly unrealeverything seemed unreal in that ghastly cityyou, I, our marriage of crazy impulsethe people, the sunlight, the deathly odours, the torturing, endless creak of the punkha. . . . It was not a question ofof love, of anger, of hate. I tell you I was stunnedI had no emotions concerning you or myselfafter that last sceneonly a stupefied, blind necessity to get away; a groping instinct to move toward hometo make my way home and be rid for ever of the dream that drugged me! . . . And thenand then"
"He came," said Selwyn very quietly. "Go on."
But she had nothing more to say.
"Alixe!"
She shook her head, closing her eyes.
"Little girl!oh, little girl!" he said softly, the old familiar phrase finding its own way to his lipsand she trembled slightly; "was there no other way but that? Had marriage made the world such a living hell for you that there was no other way but that?"
"Phil, I helped to make it a hell."
"Yesbecause I was pitiably inadequate to design anything better for us. I didn't know how. I didn't understand. I, the architect of our futurefailed."
"It was worse than that, Phil; we"she looked blindly at him"we had yet to learn what love might be. We did not know. . . . If we could have waitedonly waited!perhapsbecause there were moments" She flushed crimson.
"I could not make you love me," he repeated; "I did not know how."
"Because you yourself had not learned how. Butat timesnow looking back to itI thinkI think we were very near to itat moments. . . . And then that dreadful dream closed down on us again. . . . And thenthe end."
"If you could have held out," he breathed; "if I could have helped! It was I who failed you after all!"
For a long while they sat in silence; Mrs. Ruthven's white furs now covered her face. At last the carriage stopped.
As he sprang to the curb he became aware of another vehicle standing in front of the housea cabfrom which Mrs. Ruthven's maid descended.
"What is she doing here?" he asked, turning in astonishment to Mrs. Ruthven.
"Phil," she said in a low voice, "I knew you had taken this place. Gerald told me. Forgive mebut when I saw you under the awning it came to me in a flash what to do. And I've done it. . . . Are you sorry?"
"No. . . . Did Gerald tell you that I had taken this place?"
"Yes; I asked him."
Selwyn looked at her gravely; and she looked him very steadily in the eyes.
"Before I gomay I say one more word?" he asked gently.
"Yesif you please. Is it about Gerald?"
"Yes. Don't let him gamble. . . . You saw the signature on that check?"
"Yes, Phil."
"Then you understand. Don't let him do it again."
"No. AndPhil?"
"What?"
"That check isis deposited to your creditwith the rest. I have never dreamed of using it." Her cheeks were afire again, but with shame this time.
"You will have to accept it, Alixe."
"I cannot."
"You must! Don't you see you will affront Gerald? He has repaid me; that check is not mine, nor is it his."
"I can't take it," she said with a shudder. "What shall I do with it?"
"There are wayshospitals, if you care to. . . . Good-night, child."
She stretched out her gloved arm to him; he took her hand very gently and retained it while he spoke.
"I wish you happiness," he said; "I ask your forgiveness."
"Give me mine, then."