She was still a decidedly charming-looking woman as she stood holding her daughter’s garment in her hand, even if she was forty years old to Cowperwood’s thirty-five.  She was robed in one of the creations of their late prosperity, a cream-colored gown of rich silk, with dark brown trimmings—­a fetching combination for her.  Her eyes were a little hollow, and reddish about the rims, but otherwise she showed no sign of her keen mental distress.  There was considerable evidence of the former tranquil sweetness that had so fascinated him ten years before.

“Isn’t that terrible?” she said, weakly, her hands trembling in a nervous way.  “Isn’t it dreadful?  Isn’t there anything more you can do, truly?  You won’t really have to go to prison, will you?” He objected to her distress and her nervous fears.  He preferred a stronger, more self-reliant type of woman, but still she was his wife, and in his day he had loved her much.

“It looks that way, Lillian,” he said, with the first note of real sympathy he had used in a long while, for he felt sorry for her now.  At the same time he was afraid to go any further along that line, for fear it might give her a false sense as to his present attitude toward her which was one essentially of indifference.  But she was not so dull but what she could see that the consideration in his voice had been brought about by his defeat, which meant hers also.  She choked a little—­and even so was touched.  The bare suggestion of sympathy brought back the old days so definitely gone forever.  If only they could be brought back!

“I don’t want you to feel distressed about me, though,” he went on, before she could say anything to him.  “I’m not through with my fighting.  I’ll get out of this.  I have to go to prison, it seems, in order to get things straightened out properly.  What I would like you to do is to keep up a cheerful appearance in front of the rest of the family—­father and mother particularly.  They need to be cheered up.”  He thought once of taking her hand, then decided not.  She noted mentally his hesitation, the great difference between his attitude now and that of ten or twelve years before.  It did not hurt her now as much as she once would have thought.  She looked at him, scarcely knowing what to say.  There was really not so much to say.

“Will you have to go soon, if you do have to go?” she ventured, wearily.

“I can’t tell yet.  Possibly to-night.  Possibly Friday.  Possibly not until Monday.  I’m waiting to hear from Steger.  I expect him here any minute.”

To prison!  To prison!  Her Frank Cowperwood, her husband—­the substance of their home here—­and all their soul destruction going to prison.  And even now she scarcely grasped why!  She stood there wondering what she could do.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” she asked, starting forward as if out of a dream.  “Do you want me to do anything?  Don’t you think perhaps you had better leave Philadelphia, Frank?  You needn’t go to prison unless you want to.”