Mr. Reffold laughed.
"Poor Winifred," he said. "If it is ever your lot to fall ill and be neglected, perhaps then you will think of me."
"Neglected?" she said, in some surprise. "What do you mean? I thought you had everything you wanted. The nurse brought excellent testimonials. I was careful in the choice of her. You have never complained before."
He turned wearily on his side, and made no answer. And for some time there was silence between them.
Then he watched her as she bent over her embroidery.
"You are very beautiful, Winifred," he said quietly, "but you are a selfish woman. Has it ever struck you that you are selfish?"
Mrs. Reffold gave no reply, but she made a resolution to write to her particular friend at Cannes and confide to her how very trying her husband had become.
"I suppose it is part of his illness," she thought meekly. "But it is hard to have to bear it."
And Mrs. Reffold pitied herself profoundly. She stitched sincere pity for herself into that piece of embroidery.
"I remember you telling me," continued Mr. Reffold, "that sick people repelled you. That was when I was strong and vigorous. But since I have been ill, I have often recalled your words. Poor Winifred! You did not think then that you would have an invalid husband on your hands. Well, you were not intended for sick-room nursing, and you have not tried to be what you were not intended for. Perhaps you were right, after all."