SECLUDED in a room of the Pontchartrain Hotel, high up from the street, sparing himself nothing, yet trying to be fair to himself as to Fay, George Judson told the scientist the story of his life and of hers and of their life together.
"Just the old familiar story, Mr. Judson," the doctor diagnosed wearily, as if his shoulders were already bowed by the great weight of domestic woe the practice of his peculiar profession devolved. "One I have heard a hundred times before—a husband absorbed in business and a wife with abundant energies and nothing to do."
"But, Doctor," protested George, "she has a lot to do—if she would do it."
"Nothing adequate to do!" emphasized the doctor; "and, and—" But the neurologist this time interrupted himself. He had been going on to complete the world-old triangle by adding, "And the other man."
But the obvious intensity of Judson's nature warned him. He saw that the reaction after this long passivity of a generous and unsuspecting heart might be a sudden impulse to violence.
