Lady Wychcote said nothing at once, only sat and looked at her daughter-in-law. As she saw the hardness to which Sophy's face was congealing under this look, she broke her silence by observing:
"I was trying to realise that you actually propose to leave the man, whom you promised to cherish in sickness and in health—to leave him in the clutch of a hideous illness—merely because your son, his son, has had an attack of croup."
Sophy said quietly:
"Why do you call it an 'illness,' Lady Wychcote?"
Her mother-in-law reddened; but replied doggedly:
"Because it is an illness. He came near dying the other night."
"People who persistently take poison must come near dying sometimes," said Sophy.
Lady Wychcote rose.
"I pity my son!" she exclaimed. "I pity him from the depths of my soul!"
"Yes.... I pity him, too," said Sophy.