Lily shrugged her slim shoulders. "I don't care one way or another. I've got my own affairs to think of. If he doesn't interfere with me I won't interfere with him." Again she knocked off the ash of her cigarette. "Have him, if you want to."
It was Mrs. Whitelaw's turn. She sat still, pensive. The clock could be heard ticking. Her husband gazed at her as if his life would depend on what she had to say. Tom himself went numb again. She spoke at last.
"If you're satisfied, Henry, I'm satisfied. All I ask in the world is that you—" she gasped her little sob—"is that you shall be happy." Rising she walked straight up to Tom. "I want to kiss you."
When he had bent his head she kissed him on the forehead, formally, sacramentally. She went back to her seat.
Without moving from his place at the table, Whitelaw smiled across the room at Tom, a smile of relief and tenderness.
"Well, what do you say?"
Tom looked down at Hildred, noting her strange expression. It was not a satisfied expression; rather it was challenging, defiant of something, he didn't know of what. But he couldn't now consider Hildred; he couldn't consider anyone but himself. He did not change his position, leaning on the white marble mantelpiece; nor was his tone other than conversational.
"I'm awfully sorry, sir—I'm sorry to say it to you especially—but it's—it's not good enough."
With the slightest possible movement of the head Hildred made him a sign of proud approval. Whitelaw's smile went out.
"What's not good enough?"