Chapter CLXXXII: Section 3: Thyrsis would come back from a sojourn such as this with all

his impulses of affection and sympathy renewed; he would have had time to miss Corydon, and to realize how closely he was bound to her. He would be eager to tell her all his adventures, and the wonderful plans which he had formed.

But this time it was Corydon who had adventures to narrate. He realized as soon as he saw her that she had something upon her mind; and at the first occasion she led him off to his own study, and shut the door. He got a fire going, and she sat opposite him and gazed at him.

“Thyrsis,” she said, “I hardly know how to begin.”

It was all very formal and mysterious. “What is it, dear?” he asked.

“It’s something terrible,” she whispered. “I’m afraid you’re going to be angry.”

“What is it?” he repeated, more anxiously.

“I was angry myself, at first,” she said; “but I’ve got over it now. And I want you please to be reasonable.”

“Go on, dear.”

“Thyrsis,” she whispered, after a pause, “it’s Harry.”

“Harry?”

“Harry Stuart, you know.”

“Oh,” said he. He had all but forgotten the young drawing-teacher, whom he had left doing Socialist cartoons.

“Well?” he inquired.

“You see, Thyrsis, I always liked him very much. And he’s been coming up here--quite a good deal. I didn’t see why he shouldn’t come--Delia liked him too, and she was with us most of the time. Was it wrong of me to let him come?”

“I don’t know,” said he. “Tell me.”

“Perhaps it’s silly of me,” Corydon continued, hesitatingly--“but I’m always imagining things about people. And he seemed to me to have such possibilities. He has--how shall I say it--”

“I recall your saying he had soulful eyes,” put in Thyrsis.

“You’ll make fun of it all, of course,” said Corydon. “But it’s really very tragic. You see, he’s never met a woman like me before.”

“I can believe that, my dear.”

“I mean--a woman that has any real ideas. He would ask me questions by the hour; and we talked about everything. So, of course, we talked about love; and he--he asked if I was happy.”

“I see,” said Thyrsis, grimly. “Of course you said that you were miserable.”

“I didn’t say much. I told him that your work was hard, and that my courage wasn’t always equal to my task. Anyone can see that I have suffered.”

“Yes, dear,” said Thyrsis, “of course. Go on.”

“Well, one day--it was last Friday--he came up with a carriage to take us driving. And Delia had a headache, and wanted to rest, and so Harry and I went alone. I--I guess I shouldn’t have gone, but I didn’t realize it. It was a beautiful afternoon, and we both had a good time--in fact, I don’t know when I have been so contentedly happy. We stopped to gather wild flowers, and once we sat by a little stream; and of course, we talked and talked, and before I realized it, twilight was falling, and we were a long way from home.”

“Go on,” said Thyrsis, as she hesitated.

“We started out. I recollected later, though I didn’t seem to notice it at the time--that Harry’s voice seemed to grow husky, and he spoke indistinctly. He had let the horse have the reins, and his arm was on the back of my seat. I hadn’t noticed it; but then--then--fancy my horror--”

“Well?”

“It happened--all of a sudden.” Corydon stammered, her cheeks turning scarlet. “I felt his arm clasp me; and I turned and stared, and his face was close to mine, and his eyes were fairly shining.”

There was a pause. “What did you do?” asked the other.

“I just looked at him calmly, and said, ‘Oh, how _could_ you?’ And at that he took his arm away quickly, and sat up stiff and straight, with a terribly hurt expression. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I was mad.’ And we neither of us spoke a word all the way home. And when we came to the house, I jumped out of the carriage without saying good-night.”

Corydon sat staring at her husband, with her wide-open, anxious eyes. “And was that all?” he asked.

“To-day I had a letter from him. He said he was going away, over the Christmas holidays. He said that he was very much ashamed of himself, and he hoped that I would be able to forgive him. And that’s all.”

They sat for a while in silence. “You won’t be too angry?” asked Corydon, anxiously.

“I’m not angry at all,” he said. “But naturally it’s disturbing. I don’t like to have such things happen to you.”

“It’s strange, you know,” said Corydon, “but I haven’t seemed to stay very indignant. He was so hurt, you know--and I can realize how unhappy he’s been. Curiously enough, I’ve even found myself thinking that I’d like to see him again. And that puzzled me. I felt that I ought to be quite outraged. That he should imagine he could hug me--like any shop-girl!”

They spent many hours discussing this adventure; in fact it was a week or two before they had disposed of it entirely. Thyrsis was hoping that the experience might be utilized to persuade Corydon to modify her utopian attitude towards young men with soulful eyes and waving brown hair. He was at some pains to set forth to her the psychology of the male creature--insisting that he knew more about this than she did, and that his remarks applied to drawing-teachers as well as to all other arts and professions.

The main question, of course, was as to their attitude towards Harry Stuart when he returned. Corydon, it became clear, had forgiven him; the phraseology of his letter was touching, and he was now invested in the glamor of penitence. She insisted that the episode might be overlooked, and that their friendship could go on as before. But Thyrsis argued vigorously that their relationship could never be the same again, and declared that they ought not to meet.

“But then,” Corydon protested, “he’ll be at the Jennings! And I can’t snub him!”

“What does Delia think about it?” he asked.

“Dear me!” Corydon exclaimed. “I haven’t told Delia a word of it!”

“Haven’t told her! But why not?”

“Because she’d be horrified. She’d never speak to Harry Stuart again!”

“But then you want _me_ to speak to him! And even to be cordial to him! You want to go ahead and carry on a sentimental flirtation with him--”

“Oh, Thyrsis!” she protested.

“But that’s what it would come to. And how much peace of mind do you suppose I’d have, while I knew that was going on?”

At which Corydon sighed pathetically. “I’m a fine sort of emancipated woman!” she said. “Don’t you see you’re playing the role of the conventional jealous husband?”

But as she thought over the matter in the privacy of her own mind she was filled with perplexity, and wondered at herself. She found herself actually longing to see Harry Stuart. She asked herself, “Can it really be I, Corydon, who am capable of being interested in any other man besides my husband?” She could not bring herself to face the fact that it was true.