“Well,” she said, “what does he say; is it all right?”
Then catching sight of her husband’s face, she seized his arm.
“Tell me the worst at once,” she gasped, steadying herself by her other hand on the back of his chair. “Don’t hide it from me, for God’s sake!”
“There is nothing to be told,” he replied, making a valiant effort to speak and look as usual. “Maurice was not nearly as ill as we imagined; he will be all right to-morrow; I assure you there is no cause for alarm,” he added earnestly, “none whatever.”
“You are sure? You are not saying this out of mistaken kindness? It is true?”
“Quite true,” he repeated, pushing back his chair and standing up.
Alice gazed fixedly at her husband; he was deathly pale, and had a half-stunned look, and surely when she first saw him his thick black lashes were wet.
“Then what was the matter with you just now?” she inquired. “Won’t you tell me? Won’t you let me share your trouble after all you said to-night?”
“I can’t. At least not now,” he stammered.
“Why not now?” she exclaimed. “It must be some very bad news, I know, for you look even more sorry than when we thought Maurice was dying; and yet it cannot be anything worse than that! Let me help you to bear it whatever it is; do, my dear Regy?”