She sobbed.
“Are you ill?” he said, turning her face so that it lay upon his breast, chin quivering, eyes closed.
No, she was not ill, she said. The white lids lifted. She regarded him sorrowfully. “Only I want to ask you something. I must know,” she whispered.
“Ask anything; only don’t cry. I can’t stand it,” kissing her.
“George,” she began after a pause.
“Yes, my life,” in grave suspense.
“Am I a good wife?”
Good heaven! What a question. Of course she was, the best and loveliest wife a man ever had.
“But aren’t you—have you been disappointed in me?”
“You surpass my happiest dreams of happiness,” he assured her hastily. Now was everything all right?