And not the least of his quandaries was the fact that people were acting queer. His own most intimate friends stood by him loyally. Men called or wrote or telephoned with sincere offers of help, sympathy and understanding.
But Madeleine’s friends were aloof. Only a few of the women had called on Mrs. Selden, only a few had sent notes or cards to him.
He knew, he realized that there was something for him to learn about Maddy—something derogatory, perhaps disgraceful, but from a strange feeling or fear he shrank from knowing it—at least, until after her funeral.
He wanted to take his last look at that beautiful face with only sorrow in his heart, not shame—if shame must come.
Poor Madeleine. He thought of her only tenderly. He forgot all the unpleasant things she had said to him, he forgot all her sarcasms and insults, and there had been many of late. He felt that perhaps he had been more to blame than he realized.
He had not been blameless, that he knew. But, then—and always at that point thoughts came crowding that he could not stand, and he would rise and go about some other business, in an effort to distract his mind.
Mrs. Gardner had written him a short, conventional note of condolence. She had said that she couldn’t bear to talk about it, and hoped he would understand. He did.
Rosamond Sayre telephoned to say that she was too upset and overcome even to write. Perhaps after a long time she could see him, but not at present.
“Why do they think I want to see them?” Barham wondered. Just because they had been his wife’s friends was no reason to his mind that they should meet and discuss the dreadful affair.
One woman gave him an inkling of the situation.
