“I am very glad you think that,” he said warmly.
She looked away from him.
“Everard,” she sighed, “I believe you are in love with your wife.”
There was a strange, almost a terrible mixture of expressions in his face as he answered,—a certain fear, a certain fondness, a certain almost desperate resignation. Even his voice, as a rule so slow and measured, shook with an emotion which amazed his companion.
“I believe I am,” he muttered. “I am afraid of my feelings for her. It may bring even another tragedy down upon us.”
“Don't talk rubbish!” Caroline exclaimed. “What tragedy could come between you now? You've recovered your balance. You are a strong, steadfast person, just fitted to be the protector of anything so sweet and charming as Rosamund. Tragedy, indeed! Why don't you take her down to the South of France, Everard, and have your honeymoon all over again?”
“I can't do that just yet.”
She studied him curiously. There were times when he seemed wholly incomprehensible to her.
“Are you still worried about that Unthank affair?” she asked.
He hesitated for a moment.