“Even six weeks—it’s nothing. After, you’ll both be much happier, I’m sure,” said Bertha consolingly. “Sometimes there is a sort of strain and a change is needed. It will be all right.”
“But, Mrs. Kellynch, you don’t know—you don’t understand. I have always been so terribly, madly jealous. I have worried him into it. You see—I can’t help it, I love him so much! I do love him. You can’t imagine what it is!”
“Indeed I can!” cried Bertha. “I care quite as much for Percy. You can’t think how much.”
“Really and truly? But that’s so different, because he cares quite as much for you.”
“Indeed, I hope so,” said Bertha seriously.
“Yes. But Nigel doesn’t—he’s kind, but I don’t think he cares much about me. What shall I do?”
Bertha paused, deeply sorry. Then she said:
“Nonsense! Of course he does, but you—if you’ll excuse my saying so—you seem to worry him, to bother him with imaginary grievances, with unjust suspicious. What man will bear that?”
“Then will you tell me what to do?” she asked, like a child.
“First, don’t beg him to come back. Write kindly, unselfishly, cheerfully.”