He shook his head impatiently, but made no answer. He did look very forlorn. She patted his shoulder. "Oh, come, cheer up! Whatever it is, grouching won't help. We mustn't have you going to bed too, like Godfrey." She gave him this lead, hoping that he would take it. It seemed better to her now that he should realise the truth, or some of it.
He turned his face towards her slowly. She looked at him with grave eyes, but with a little smile—of protest, as it were, against any overdoing of the tragedy.
"What does the fellow want here?" he asked in a very low voice.
"All he can get," she answered brusquely. "That's my opinion anyhow, though I couldn't prove it."
He did not move; he looked at her still; his eyes were heavy with another question. But he dared not put it—at least not yet. "Why is he allowed to come here then?" he grumbled.
"Who's to stop him? Godfrey? From bed?"
The remembrance of Godfrey turning his face to the wall answered her question. But she went on with a repressed vehemence, "Do you suppose Godfrey needs telling? Well, then, what could I do? And I'm not sure I'd do anything if I could. I've done my best with this family, but it's pretty hopeless. Things must happen as they must, Arthur. And you've no right to hold me responsible."
"I can't understand it," he muttered slowly.
"I thought you would by now—staying in the house."
"But she'd never—let him?" His voice sank to a whisper.