“It isn’t—it isn’t exactly nonsense.” The cough stopped him again; but he went on, while it still troubled him: “I’m a failure, Martha. I’ve been a failure in business—and a failure as a husband—and a failure as a father. George McMillan hasn’t got here with Henry yet, has he?”
“No, dear; not yet.”
Dan’s hand moved restlessly under hers, and she released it. With a visible effort he rubbed his forehead, a gesture of perplexity that hurt her and made it difficult for her to retain her appearance of cheerfulness, because this characteristic gesture brought his boyhood so vividly to her memory. “I’ve just got to have Henry back,” he said. “I’ve got to get him back so’s to do right by him. It isn’t—it isn’t fair to a boy, Martha.”
“What isn’t?”
“Do you remember my grandmother Savage?”
“Of course. No one could forget her, Dan.”
“No, I guess not. Well, she”—he shook his head, and half coughed, half laughed—“she was right about some things. My! but wouldn’t she be sayin’, ‘Didn’t I tell you so?’ if she knew what’s happened to my poor Henry! I’ve been a terrible failure with Henry, Martha.” He looked patiently at her as she denied this; and then he said abruptly: “Why, I’ve even been a failure with you, Martha!”
“That’s the absurdest thing you’ve said, dear!”
“No. I’ve been a failure as a friend, too. I let Lena fret me out of comin’ in to see you when you’d been away that long stretch. I had no business to pay any attention to her. You see—why, you always really liked me better than she did, Martha!”
He spoke as if it were a discovery just made; and she assented to it, taking his hand again. “Yes, Dan. I’ve always liked you better than anybody.”