"I don't like to, miss," she said, "thanking you all the same. It's truly good of you—but—"
Edward moved away a pace or two and lit a cigarette. He never knew what his lady said to the woman in black, but when he turned again a handkerchief was being restored to a rubbed black leather reticule and the woman in black was saying,
"Well, ma'am, since you say that, of course I can't say no, and thank you kindly."
The three had dinner together in the little private room over the porch at the Warwick Arms, and as they passed through the hall there could have been, for the little woman in black, no better armor against the sniffs of chambermaids and the cold eyes of the lady in the glass case than the feel of another woman's hand on her arm. She was very silent and shy, but not awkward or clumsy, during the meal, and when it was finished Edward got up and said,
"Well, Katherine, I'll leave you two to talk things over."
It was the first time he had called her by her name. She flushed and sparkled, and was startled and amazed next moment to know that she had answered,
"Yes, dear, do—"
Edward, however, was not unduly elated. He knew how women will play the part set for them, to the least detail. She hoped he had not noticed the slip which, quite unconsciously, the opening of her heart toward this sad sister-woman had led her to make. He wished that she had not first called him that in a mere desire to act up to what this woman would expect.
He left them, and then the pitiful little story all came out, with fit accompaniment of sighs, and presently tears, together with those sweet and tender acts and words which blend with the sighs and tears of the sorrowful into a melody as sad as beautiful. They had been married thirty-seven years next Michaelmas; they had had a little shop—a little needlework and fancy shop. She had done well enough with the customers, but he had always done the buying, and when he was taken. . . .