— 17 —Martin Rue again received his wife’s companion in the library. The vista of light, warmth and pure color showed behind the glass doors. The young man was shrunken, slightly bowed, and moved in a crippled manner, complaining of pains in his legs. On the desk was a woven grass Indian basket full of bottles and phials, beside it a medicine glass, a bottle of water, and a box of cigars; but he had not been smoking. Her loathing of illness and her long delayed but now forceful resentment at having had to nurse a sick man during a slow malady, came on her with a touch of fury. How thankful I shall be when I can be free of this house, with this stupid woman and this man with his imaginary disease. The young banker’s greenish eyes were turned toward her delicate wrist.
“I see you wear my wi
