To just the right person she would have confessed the
discovery that she had made a mistake and tied herself for life to the
wrong man. It was not so much that she fancied Littleton which
distressed her, for, indeed, she was but mildly conscious of
infatuation. What disturbed her was the contrast between him and
Babcock, which definite separation now forced upon her attention. An
indefinable impression that Littleton might think less of her if she
were to state this soul truth had restrained her at the last moment from
disclosing the secret. Not for an instant did she entertain the idea of
being false to Lewis. Her confession would have been but a dissertation
on the inexorable irony of fate, calling only for sympathy, and in no
way derogating from her dignity and self-respect as a wife. Still, she
had restrained herself, and stopped just short of the confidence. He was
gone, and she would probably not see him again for years. That was
endurable. Indeed, a recognition of the contrary would not have seemed
to her consistent with wifely virtue. What brought the tears to her eyes
was the vision of continued wedlock, until death intervened, with a
husband who could not understand. Could she bear this? Must she endure
it? There was but one answer: She must.
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