“I want you to do whatever will make you happier,” he temporized.
“If you really needed me there I would come. But you are always so absorbed when you're working, and I am so busy with Baby, that I don't believe we should have much more time together than now.”
“Neither do I,” he agreed, in a tone suspiciously like relief, which she was quick to catch.
“On the other hand,” she went on, “this place is far better for Baby, and I am devoted to it. We couldn't afford anything half as comfortable in the city, and you like it, too, in the summer.”
“Of course I do,” he answered cheerfully. “I should hate to give it up, and I'm sure it's much more economical, and all that. Still, if you stay here through the winter you mustn't be angry if I am in town part of the time—my work has got to come first, you know.”
“Yes, of course, dear,” said Mary, wistfully, “and I think it would be a mistake for me to come unless you really wanted me.”
“Of course I want you, Beautiful.”
He spoke easily, but she was not deceived. She knew he was glad of the arrangement, not for her sake, but for his own. She had watched him fretting for weeks past, like a caged bird, and she had the wisdom to see that her only hope of making him desire the nest again lay in giving him freedom from it. Her pride fortified this perception. As she had said long ago, Mary was no bargainer.
In spite of her comprehension, however, she warmed toward him. It was so good to see him lounging on the sofa again, his green-gold eyes bright, his brown face with its elfish smile radiant now that his point was won. She knew he had been unkind to her both in word and act, but it was impossible not to forgive him, now that she enjoyed again the comfort of his presence.
Smiling, she poured out his third cup of tea, and was just passing it when there was a knock, and McEwan entered the hall.