"Oh, yes. If it was said in the heat of the moment...."
"I'm afraid that what was said in the heat of the moment was only what has been building itself up in his mind for a long time past. It's a result of his deterioration. Because I don't treat him as I suppose other people do who worship success—and he has come to want that—I'm jealous of his success. He can't see straight any longer; he can't see me as I've always been, and am still. That is what is between us, and it goes deeper than anything he has said or done. He isn't any longer the brother I used to have."
She saw that he was deeply moved and that it was no time now to say anything to alter his mind. Besides, the one fact that she and Eleanor had both insisted on as lying behind everything—the affection between the brothers—seemed no longer to govern the situation. Their ways had widely diverged, and it looked as if they had drifted apart in spirit as well as in the interests they had once held in common.
Her husband rose from his chair with a deep sigh, and said something that she was unprepared for. "Thank God, that I've still got you and the children left to me!"
She broke down and shed tears, but dried them immediately, for she knew how he disliked the expression of emotion, and that his own had been wrung from him only by deep feeling. He kissed her good-night and said kindly: "Don't take it too much to heart. And if you and Eleanor can mend it between you, you won't find me implacable. I've gone a long way in trying to put it straight, and I'll go further if it's necessary."
"If William will apologize?" she said, making a last effort.
"I'll do without an apology. After all, it isn't words that I want. Let him dismiss Coombe, without any further to-do. I'll take that as covering everything. I dare say I said things to him that offended him as much as he offended me, though it is certain that I held myself more in hand than he did. No, I don't want any apology. But he must dismiss Coombe."