But I used
to know his first wife. She was a sort of friend of mine. They used to
call her the loveliest woman in U.S., Mr. Merefleet. And she belonged to
that fiend."
They began to walk towards the boats through the shifting shingle.
Merefleet had nothing to say. There was something in her passionate
speech that disturbed him vaguely. She spoke as one whose most sacred
personal interests had once been at stake.
"Lucky for her she's dead, Big Bear," she said presently, with a
side-glance at him. "I've never regretted any of my friends less than
Mrs. Ralph Warrender. Oh, she was real miserable. I've seen her with
diamonds piled high in her hair and her face all shining with smiles. And
I've known all the time that her heart was broken. And when I heard that
she was dead, do you know, I was glad--yes, thankful. And I guess
Warrender wasn't sorry. For she hated him."
"I never cared for Warrender," said Merefleet. "But I always took him for
a gentleman."
She laughed at his words with a gaiety that jarred upon him. "Do you
know, Big Bear," she said, "I think they must have forgotten to teach
you your ABC when you went to school? You're such an innocent."
Merefleet tramped by her side in silence. There was something in him that
shrank when she spoke in this vein.
But quite suddenly her tone changed. She spoke very gently. "Still, it's
better to know too little than too much," she said.
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