So far
as Myra went, he recognized that domestic tragedy as a natural
consequence. He did not know, he was unable to say if his wife had
simply been a weak and shallow woman, left too long alone, thrown too
largely on her own resources in an environment so strongly tinctured
by the high-pitched and reckless spirit generated by the war. He had
always known that his wife--women generally were the same, he
supposed--was dominated by emotional urges, rather than cold reason.
But that had never struck him as of great significance. Women were
like that. A peculiar obtuseness concealed from him, until now, that
men also were much the same. He was, himself. When his feelings and
his reason came into conflict, it was touch and go which should
triumph. The fact remained that for a long time the war had separated
them as effectually as a divorce court. Hollister had always had a
hazy impression that Myra was the sort of woman to whom love was
necessary, but he had presumed that it was the love of a particular
man, and that man himself. This, it seemed, was a mistake, and he had
paid a penalty for making that mistake.
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