Lift her up carefully
and now--go! Go away!"
Boulte carried his wife into Mrs. Vansuythen's bedroom and departed before the
storm of that lady's wrath and disgust, impenitent and burning with jealousy.
Kurrell had been making love to Mrs. Vansuythen--would do Vansuythen as great
a wrong as he had done Boulte, who caught himself considering whether Mrs.
Vansuythen would faint if she discovered that the man she loved had foresworn
her.
In the middle of these meditations, Kurrell came cantering along the road and
pulled up with a cheery, "Good mornin'. 'Been mashing Mrs. Vansuythen as
usual, eh? Bad thing for a sober, married man, that. What will Mrs Boulte
say?"
Boulte raised his head and said, slowly, "Oh, you liar!"
Kurrell's face changed. "What's that?" he asked, quickly.
"Nothing much," said Boulte. "Has my wife told you that you two are free to go
off whenever you please? She has been good enough to explain the situation to
me. You've been a true friend to me, Kurrell--old man--haven't you?"
Kurrell groaned, and tried to frame some sort of idiotic sentence about being
willing to give "satisfaction." But his interest in the woman was dead, had
died out in the Rains, and, mentally, he was abusing her for her amazing
indiscretion.
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