Nan was the first to notice what was happening. “He’s making love to Jehane, I declare!”
Her husband shook his head knowingly. “Jehane’s too proud for that.”
“But he is. They’re always sitting over the fire, oh, so closely, and whispering together.”
“It can’t be. She’s amusing herself. If I thought it were, I’d stop it. Ocky may be a bounder, but he wouldn’t do that.”
“Billy boy, he’s doing it.”
“But he’s hardly got a penny to bless himself, and her little income wouldn’t attract him.”
“You may say what you like, old obstinate; it doesn’t alter facts.”
Jehane was proud, as Barrington said; but not too proud. She realized quite well what Waffles was, but she hoped to brace him up with her strength. She was by no means blind to his shortcomings. Often, when the smile was playing about her mouth, her mind was in a ferment of derision. At night remorse pursued her—the fine, clean memory of Bobbie Spashett.—But the constant sight of Nan and Barrington, their stolen kisses and love-words, were getting on her nerves. She looked down the vista of the years—was no man ever to conquer her? Was she to grow into an old woman with that one brief memory of her soldier-man? So love-hunger drew her to Waffles, despite the warnings of her better sense. The love-hunger was continually quickened by the sight of Nan’s domestic happiness.
When, after a week’s acquaintance, he said, “Mrs. Spashett, will you marry me?” she replied, “My brave husband!—I cannot.—I must be true to the end.”
When he asked her again two days later, she was less positive. “Oh, Mr. Waffles, there’s Glory.”