"It is so often so," says his wife in a low tone. "It is an old story, dearest, but I know that when the old stories come home to us individually they always sound so terribly new. But what do they mean by a small house?" asks she presently in a distressed tone.
"Well, I suppose a small house," said he, with just a passing gleam of his old jesting manner. "You know my mother cannot bear the country, so I think the cottage idea will fall through."
"Freddy," says his wife suddenly. "She can't go into a small house, a London small house. It is out of the question. Could they not come and live with us?"
She is suggesting a martyrdom for herself, yet she does it unflinchingly.
"What! My aunt and all?" asks he, regarding her earnestly.
"Oh, of course, of course, poor old thing," says she, unable this time, however, to hide the quaver that desolates her voice.
"No," says her husband with a suspicion of vehemence. He takes her suddenly in his arms and kisses her. "Because two or three people are unhappy is no reason why a fourth should be made so, and I don't want your life spoiled, so far as I can prevent it. I suppose you have guessed that I must go over to Nice—where he is—my father could not possibly go alone in his present state."
"When, must you go?"
"To-morrow. As for you——"
"If we could go home," says she uncertainly.