Then I felt rather ashamed of having said that, remembering that, after all, she had stuck to Fazackerly, from whom most women would probably have fled at the end of six weeks.
But Nancy only said sadly, “I know I am.”
“Is it Christopher?” I asked, well knowing that it was.
She nodded.
“I know you can’t say you’re glad,” she added hastily.
“But I should be glad, to see you happy.”
“It’s very nice of you.”
We were both thinking of Claire, but our conversation, as is the way of most conversations, made no mention of that of which we were thinking.
“I cannot imagine what Father would do, all by himself, although he does say that I am such a bad housekeeper. And it would be quite impossible to have anything like a joint establishment.”
I nearly said, “God forbid!” as I thought of old Carey, and his incessant grumbling, and his stinginess, and his criminology.