Mr. Hutton felt ashamed. How much was it his own lack of sympathy that prevented her from feeling well every day? But he comforted himself by reflecting that it was only a case of feeling, not of being better. Sympathy does not mend a diseased liver or a weak heart.
"My dear, I wouldn't eat those red currants if I were you," he said, suddenly solicitous. "You know that Libbard has banned everything with skins and pips."
"But I am so fond of them," Mrs. Hutton protested, "and I feel so well to-day."
"Don't be a tyrant," said Miss Spence, looking first at him and then at his wife. "Let the poor invalid have what she fancies; it will do her good." She laid her hand on Mrs. Hutton's arm and patted it affectionately two or three times.
"Thank you, my dear." Mrs. Hutton helped herself to the stewed currants.
"Well, don't blame me if they make you ill again."
"Do I ever blame you, dear?"
"You have nothing to blame me for," Mr. Hutton answered playfully. "I am the perfect husband."
They sat in the garden after luncheon. From the island of shade under the old cypress tree they looked out across a flat expanse of lawn, in which the parterres of flowers shone with a metallic brilliance.
Mr. Hutton took a deep breath of the warm and fragrant air. "It's good to be alive," he said.