"Of course," she again assented. "But supposing Lita asks to speak to me?"
"Well, let her speak--listen to what she has to say. . ." He stopped, and then added, in a rough unsteady voice: "Only don't be hard on her. You won't, will you? No matter what rot she talks. The child's never had half a chance."
"How could you think I should, Dexter?"
"No; no; I don't." He stood up, and sent a slow unseeing gaze about the room. The gaze took in his wife, and rested on her long enough to make her feel that she was no more to him--mauve tea-gown, Chinese amethysts, touch of rouge and silver sandals--than a sheet of glass through which he was staring: staring at what? She had never before felt so inexistent.
"Well--I'm dog-tired--down and out," he said with one of his sudden jerks, shaking his sho
