"He has not quite decided, I think."
"It would be a nice little run for them, though I have made John promise to be back by Christmas."
All the afternoon Violet ponders this in a sore, bewildered state. She has enough wifely pride to be hurt at the lack of confidence. Once he said when the cares of business were over they two would have a holiday. Will he ever desire one with her?
That evening Cecil climbs upon her lap and puts her soft arms about Violet's neck, and she presses the child in a long, passionate embrace.
"Oh, why do you hug me so tightly?" Cecil cries, with a touch of wilfulness.
The hands suddenly unclasp. Is her love to prove a burthen even here? Does no one want it?
"Mamma——" Cecil bends down to kiss her. "O mamma, are you crying? Don't cry, sweetest." She has caught this from the lovers. "Oh, you know I love you—better than anybody!"
The ambiguity is almost like a stab. The child has told the truth unwittingly. Violet is like a person drowning in a wide dreary ocean, when some stray spar floats thitherward. It is not a promise of rescue, yet despair clutches it.
"Not better than—papa?" Then a mortal shame crimsons her face and she despises herself.
Cecil draws a long, quivering breath. "I did love papa best," she whispers, "but now——"