My wife--has gone back
to her father."
"On a visit?" Burns inquired.
Coolidge stared at him. "That's like you, Red," he said, irritation in
his voice again. "What's the use of being brutal?"
"Has she been gone long enough for people to think it's anything more
than a visit?"
"I suppose not. She's been gone two months. Her home is in California."
"Then she can be gone three without anybody's thinking trouble. By the
end of that third month you can bring her home," said Burns comfortably.
He leaned back in his swivel-chair, and stared hard at the ceiling.
Coolidge made an exclamation of displeasure and got to his feet. "If you
don't care to take me seriously--" he began.
"I don't take any man seriously who I know cared as much for his wife
when he married her as you did for Miss Carrington--and whose wife was
as much in love with him as she was with you--when he comes to me and
talks about her having gone on a visit to her father. Visits are good
things; they make people appreciate each other."
"You don't--or won't--understand." Coolidge evidently strove hard to
keep himself quiet. "We have come to a definite understanding that we
can't--get on together. She's not coming back. And I don't want her to."
Burns lowered his gaze from the ceiling to his friend's face, and the
glance he now gave him was piercing. "Say that last again," he demanded.
"I have some pride," replied the other haughtily, but his eyes would not
meet Burns's.
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