But except that there were not infrequent and sometimes twenty-four-hour sieges when he was denied the sight of his wife, he had learned, with a male’s acquiescence to the frailties of the other sex, to submit, and, with no great understanding of pain, to condone.

And as if to atone for these more or less frequent lapses, there was something pathetic, even a little heartbreaking, in Carrie’s zeal for his well-being.  No duty too small.  One night she wanted to unlace his shoes and even shine them—­would have, in fact, except for his fierce catching of her into his arms and for some reason his tonsils aching as he kissed her.

Once after a “spell” she took out every garment from his wardrobe and, kissing them piece by piece, put them back again, and he found her so, and they cried together, he of happiness.

In his utter beatitude, even his resentment of Alma continued to grow but slowly.  Once, when after forty-eight hours she forbade him rather fiercely an entrance into his wife’s room, he shoved her aside almost rudely, but, at Carrie’s little shriek of remonstrance from the darkened room, backed out shamefacedly, and apologized next day in the conciliatory language of a tiny wrist watch.

But a break came, as she knew and feared it must.

One evening during one of these attacks, when for two days Carrie had not appeared at the dinner table, Alma, entering when the meal was almost over, seated herself rather exhaustedly at her mother’s place opposite her stepfather.

He had reached the stage when that little unconscious usurpation in itself could annoy him.

“How’s your mother?” he asked, dourly for him.

“She’s asleep.”

“Funny.  This is the third attack this month, and each time it lasts longer.  Confound that neuralgia!”

“She’s easier now.”

He pushed back his plate.

“Then I’ll go in and sit with her while she sleeps.”

She, who was so fastidiously dainty of manner, half rose, spilling her soup.

“No,” she said, “you mustn’t!  Not now!” And sat down again hurriedly, wanting not to appear perturbed.

A curious thing happened then to Louis.  His lower lip came pursing out like a little shelf and a hitherto unsuspected look of pigginess fattened over his rather plump face.

“You quit butting into me and my wife’s affairs, you, or get the hell out of here,” he said, without raising his voice or his manner.

She placed her hand to the almost unbearable flutter of her heart.

“Louis!  You mustn’t talk like that to—­me!”

“Don’t make me say something I’ll regret.  You!  Only take this tip, you!  There’s one of two things you better do.  Quit trying to come between me and her or—­get out.”

“I—­She’s sick.”

“Naw, she ain’t.  Not as sick as you make out.  You’re trying, God knows why, to keep us apart.  I’ve watched you.  I know your sneaking kind.  Still water runs deep.  You’ve never missed a chance since we’re married to keep us apart.  Shame!”