It was only the shadow that was hovering over these two as yet: nothing really tangible. And the shadow was not between them. She would not let it come between them. If it covered him, it should wrap her too. The commonplace woman had no fear of its descent, only as far as it affected him.
"Nothing," she said after awhile, "could make a difference to our marriage, Luke. Except, of course, if you ceased to care."
"Or you, Lou," he suggested meekly.
"Do you think," she retorted, "that I should? Just because you had no money?"
"Not," he owned, "because of that. But I should be such a nonentity. I have no real profession, and there are the others. Jim in the Blues costs a fearful lot a year, and Frank in the diplomatic service must have his promised allowance. I have read for the bar, but beyond that what am I?"
"Your uncle's right hand," she retorted firmly, "his agent, his secretary, his factotum, all rolled into one. You manage his estates, his charities, his correspondence. You write his speeches and control his household. Lord Radclyffe—every one says it in London—would not be himself at all without Luke de Mountford behind him."
"That's not what I mean, Lou."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that—"