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Updated: July 8, 2025
This was Anne Tresslyn's set, not Lutie's, and yet here she was, a trim little warrior, inside the walls of a fortified place, hobnobbing with the formidable army of occupation and staring holes through the uniforms of the General Staff! She sat in the Tresslyn camp, and there were no other Tresslyns there.
And now one of these "muckers" down-town was annoying him with persistent demands for the return of numerous small loans extending over a period of nineteen months. That sort of thing isn't done among gentlemen, according to George Tresslyn's code. For a month or more he had been in the humiliating position of being obliged to dodge the fellow, and he was getting tired of it.
On your way, gentleman! "For heaven's sake, George," cried Simmy, arising. "Don't be an ass." He took the tag from Tresslyn's coat and handed it back to the waiter. "Give him the scarf-pin if you like, old man, but don't rob him of his badge of honour. He earns an honest living with that thing, you know." George sat down. He was suddenly abashed. "What an awful bounder you must think I am, Simmy."
"I do not question your right to be with your son. That isn't the point. The nurse has ordered your daughter and me out of the room for awhile. It is the first wink of sleep he has had in heaven knows how long. So you cannot go in and disturb him, Mrs. Tresslyn." Mrs. Tresslyn's hand fell away from the knob. For a moment she regarded the tense, agitated girl in silence.
She had dreamed of the day when she could pick up from the discarded of humanity this splendid, misused bit of rubbish and in triumph claim it as her own, to revive, to rebuild, to make over through the sure and simple processes of love! This had been Lutie Tresslyn's notion of revenge! She saw George at eight o'clock that night.
He cannot be moved, Simmy." Simmy did not blink an eye. "Then right here he stays," he said heartily. "Baffly, we shall have two nurses here for a while,—and we may also have to put up a young lady relative of Mr. Tresslyn's. Get the rooms ready. By Jove, Brady, he—he looks frightfully ill, doesn't he?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Is he likely to—to—you know!"
Blithe, and gay, and discriminating, the former "mustard girl" was making a place for herself among the moderately smart people. Now and then her name appeared in the society columns of the newspapers, where, much to Mrs. Tresslyn's annoyance, she was always spoken of as "Mrs. George Dexter Tresslyn."
He wasn't as brave as I'd have liked him to be in those days, but neither was I. If I had been as brave as I am now, George wouldn't be lying in there a wreck and a failure. You may take it into your head to ask why I am here. Well, now you know. I'm here to take care of my husband." Mrs. Tresslyn's steady, uncompromising gaze never left the face of the speaker.
That was another thing that Mrs. Tresslyn could not understand. How, in heaven's name, had she ruined his life? He took especial delight in directing her attention to the upward progress of the discredited Lutie. That attractive young person, much to Mrs. Tresslyn's disgust, actually had insinuated her vulgar presence into comparatively good society, and was coming on apace.
"Well, she's quaint in another respect," said Dodge. "She still considers herself to be George Tresslyn's wife." "Religion?" "Not a bit of it. She just says she is, that's all, and what God joined together no woman can put asunder. She means Mrs. Tresslyn, of course. By the way, Brady, I wonder if I'm still enough of a pal to be allowed to say something to you."
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