She seemed so upset. His one idea was consolation. She must not think he longed for Ruth again, in even one respect!
Perhaps at a less flustered time he might have thought of all that she did in the house; those charming little meals, hot always at however variable times; the pretty bowls of flowers; everything so dainty—green and white—so different from the grimy lodgings.
But now he did not think of that. He took her arm instinctively in his and spoke what came into his mind.
"Dear little girlie," he said kindly, "I love you to be useless."
But she was not consoled.
CHAPTER VIII
A SCENE IN THE HOME
Hubert Brett could never quite escape from business; he analysed himself too much. His action sprung from impulse, education, ancestry, whatever source philosophers may choose to say, but it was followed by a sequel due to his own introspection. He tended in this way to set up something like a chain—a sequence of states which might almost be expected after any given act.
He might have owned, found in a candid vein, that selfishness was his besetting fault. It had been so—this would be his excuse, if he indeed admitted what certainly he knew—it had been so from birth; at any rate since he recalled himself an only son and younger than his only sister, pampered and indulged so far as even a small child could wish. He always had got what he wanted. Hence naturally sprang a sort of self-centredom, a tendency to think first of what he desired, something which, well, hang it all, no, it wasn't selfishness, but merely that self-confidence which all men who meant to get things done must first of all possess....