As he seated
himself heavily at the table and with unsteady fingers shook the
folds from his napkin, he said:
"You stayed longer than you intended. Um-m--you were gone three
days, weren't you?"
"Four days," Alaire told him, realizing with a little inward start
how very far apart she and Ed had drifted. She looked at him
curiously for an instant, wondering if he really could be her
husband, or--if he were not some peculiarly disagreeable stranger.
Ed had been a handsome boy, but maturity had vitiated his good
looks. He was growing fat from drink and soft from idleness; his
face was too full, his eyes too sluggish; there was an unhealthy
redness in his cheeks. In contrast to his wife's semi-formal
dress, he was unkempt--unshaven and soiled. He wore spurred boots
and a soft shirt; his nails were grimy. When in the city he
contrived to garb himself immaculately; he was in fact something
of a dandy; but at home he was a sloven, and openly reveled in a
freedom of speech and a coarseness of manner that were sad trials
to Alaire. His preparations for dinner this evening had been
characteristically simple; he had drunk three dry cocktails and
flung his sombrero into a corner.
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