He sat at his desk, his hands stretched forward to hold open a paper laid before him. Helena even observed the wrapper from which it had come, rolled up quite tight beside the blotting-pad. She saw Hubert's air of rapt attention and noticed that he had not heard her enter. She saw two letters unopened on the table, and she thought how like him it was to open first a paper almost certainly sent him because it had some mention of himself. Yes, she could see now the blue pencil marks beside the paragraphs that he was reading. And they were exclamation marks....
Then, last of all, she recognised the paper.
It was People And Paragraphs—and he was reading that comment on the Hubert Bretts! She had destroyed the cutting; never thought of his dear friends.
In one moment all the words rehearsed died on her tongue. Afterwards perhaps, but for the moment she must comfort him. She could not hurt him more just now.
"Oh, Hubert," she cried, running to him and putting her hand impulsively upon his shoulder, all forgotten save the instinct to console, "they haven't sent you that?"
He turned round with quite a dazed look, apparently not in the least surprised to see her there. "Oh yes," he said in a hard voice, "there'll be lots of those. It's only just beginning." He stared dully at the spiteful, vulgar, words.
She knew what they must mean to him and once again her soul veered round to Ruth's mood of pity—pity and regret. It was her fault, this, she knew that; he had been right all through. He was so right and strong, and that was partly where her anger lay. She could have forgiven a weak idiot like Ally better.
She looked down at him; wavering, torn by two instincts, doubtful.
She looked. She could not see his face, but on the blotting-pad there dropped two tears.
She had not known that men could cry. Those two damp spots that spread on the green pad beneath her fascinated eyes told her of what his agony of tortured pride must be—and brought back to her memory those words of Ruth's; "He's nothing but a child: be gentle."