"He's not gone out this morning, Elsie; and he's not going out. He's missing the sale. He says himself he's not well enough; that just means not strong enough. And now he's sitting in the office trying to type, and customers just have to come to him."
The secret that was no secret was suddenly out. There was in Elsie's ingenuous dark-blue eyes such devotion, such reliability, such an offering of soft comfort as Violet could not resist. The deep-rooted suspiciousness which separates in some degree every woman from every other woman dissolved away, and with it Violet's pride in her superior station and Violet's self-sufficiency. The concealed yet notorious fact that Violet lived in torment about her husband, that all was not well in the placid household, was now openly admitted. In an instant Elsie, ardently yielding herself to another's woe, quite forgot the rasping harshness of Violet's recent onslaught. She was profoundly flattered. And she was filled with an irrational gratitude because Violet had given her the shelter of a sure, respectable home which knew not revolutions, altercations, penury, debauchery, nor the heart-rending stridency of enervated mothers and children.
"He's not himself, master isn't," she said gently.
"What do you mean—he's not himself?"
"I mean, he's not well, 'm."
"He'd be all right if he'd eat more—you know that as well as I do."
"Perhaps he hasn't got no appetite, 'm."
"Why shouldn't he have an appetite? He's never suffered from indigestion in all his life; he says so himself."
"Yes, 'm. Not till lately."
"All this talk about saving ...!" said Violet, shrugging her shoulders and wiping her eyes.