I used to laugh,
sometimes, when I was alone, at the bitter humor of it
all. It was like a Duchess novel come to life.
His work began to show slipshod in spots. They
talked to him about it and he laughed at them. Then, one
day, he left them in the ditch on the big story of the
McManus indictment, and the whole town scooped him, and
the managing editor told him that he must go. His lapses
had become too frequent. They would have to replace him
with a man not so brilliant, perhaps, but more reliable.
I daren't think of his face as it looked when he came
home to the little apartment and told me. The smoldering
eyes were flaming now. His lips were flecked with a sort
of foam. I stared at him in horror. He strode over to
me, clasped his fingers about my throat and shook me as
a dog shakes a mouse.
"Why don't you cry, eh?" he snarled. Why don't you
cry!"
And then I did cry out at what I saw in his eyes. I
wrenched myself free, fled to my room, and locked the
door and stood against it with my hand pressed over my
heart until I heard the outer door slam and the echo of
his footsteps die away.
Divorce! That was my only salvation. No, that would
be cowardly now.
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