She began wringing her hands.
"Oh no, you wouldn't."
"But I should. It would be his death-sentence at the least. It's true he has probably received that already—"
"Oh, what are you saying? What are you talking about?"
"Only of what every one can see. He's a stricken man—you've told me so yourself."
"Yes, but I said it only about Hugh. Lots of men have to go through troubles on account of their children."
"But when they do they can generally get comfort from their wives."
She seemed to stiffen.
"It's not my fault if he can't."
"No, of course not. But the fact remains that he doesn't—and perhaps it's the greatest fact of all. He adores you. His children may give him a great deal of anxiety but that's the sort of thing any father looks for and can endure. Only you're not his child; you're his wife. Moreover, you're the wife whom he worships with a slavish idolatry. Everything that nature and time and the world and wealth have made of him he gathers together and lays it down at your feet, contented if you'll only give him back a smile. You may think it pitiful—"