"Has anybody hurt your feelings?" asked Abel, turning suddenly on his
way to the door.
"No."
"Then, for God's sake, what is it?" he demanded, at his wit's end. "You
look as if you'd lost the last friend you had on earth."
At this she broke into hard dry sobs which rattled in her throat before
they escaped. A spasm of self-pity worked convulsively in her bosom,
and, turning away, she buried her face in her arms, while the long,
agonized tremors shook her slender figure. Looking at her, he remembered
bitterly that he had married Judy in order to make her happy. By the
sacrifice of his own inclinations he had achieved this disastrous
result. If he had tried to do evil instead of good, he could hardly have
wrought more irreparable mischief--and with the thought, pity, which had
led him astray, winged off, like an ironic sprite, and left his heart
empty of comfort.
"God knows I am sorry for you, Judy," he said in the effort to reinforce
his compassion.
But Judy, though she was avid of sympathy, did not crave an expression
of it from her husband--for her temperament was of the morbid kind
that is happiest when it is most miserable.
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