“I don’t even know what you mean, when you use words like patho—what’s-its-name. I wish to the Lord that I’d ever been properly educated. It’s no wonder that I’m so little use to poor Ces.”
“You’ll be of less use than ever, if you work yourself up like that,” said Lucian suddenly and sharply.
Rose stared at him, arrested mid-way in the flouncing movement that denoted the perturbation of her mind. For a moment she looked angry, and then the fundamental breadth of generosity that lay beneath all her petulance and her lack of control asserted itself.
“I expect you’re right,” she said, suddenly quiet, and smiled at him as though in remorseful atonement for her temper.
The doctor rose abruptly to his feet, and stood with his hands in his pockets, his back against the door. He was as tall a man as Ford Aviolet, but with a broad, bony frame, and the hair on his temples was already grizzled.
He looked down at Rose, who remained in her chair, gazing up at him rather surprised. Although it would not have occurred to her to make use of the words, she was singularly sensitive to atmosphere, and beneath the artificial colour upon her cheeks, there presently surged a warm blush.
Lucian immediately looked away from her. “Has it ever occurred to you that you might marry again?”
“Of course it has,” said Mrs. Aviolet defiantly. “I thought we were talking about Cecil.”
“There was nothing irrelevant in my question,” the doctor retorted caustically, “although perhaps you may reasonably look upon it as an impertinent one. Rose, I know very well that you don’t care for me at present, but isn’t there any chance for me at all?”
“I did hope you wouldn’t ask me,” said Rose piteously.