Still she did not “have it out with him.” Then weeks pushed in between her and that Sunday afternoon when the resealed telegram had been put on the hall table. And by and by it was a month, and still she could not speak. And after a while it was June—June, and the anniversary (which Maurice happened to forget, and to which Eleanor’s suffering love would not permit her to refer!). By that June day, that marked nine of the golden fifty years, Eleanor had done what many another sad and injured woman has done—dug a grave in her heart, and buried Trust and Pride in it; and then watched the grave night and day. Sometimes, as she watched, her thought was: “If he would tell me the truth, even now, I would forgive him. It is his living a lie, every day, every minute, that I can’t bear!” Then she would look at Maurice—sitting at the piano, perhaps, playing dreamily, or standing up in front of the fireplace filling his pipe, and poking old Bingo with his foot and telling him he was getting too fat; “You’re ‘losin’ your figger,’ Bingo!” Eleanor, looking and listening, would say to herself, “Is he thinking of Mrs. Dale, now?” And all day long, when she was alone (watching the grave), she would think: “Where is he now? Is he with her? Oh, I think I will follow him,—and watch.... Was he with her last night when he said he had gone to the theater? ... Is he lying to me when he says he has to go away on business, and is he really with her? It’s the lying I can’t bear! If only he would not lie to me!... Does she call him ‘Maurice’? Perhaps she called him ’darling’?” The thought of an intimacy like that, was oil on the vehement flame!