She sat motionless, her head bent, her hand resting passively in his.
He leaned nearer. “What did you mean just now, by worse things?”
She hesitated. “Haven’t you noticed that he’s been drinking a great deal lately?”
“Yes; I’ve noticed.”
They were both silent; then Wrayford broke out, with sudden vehemence: “And yet you won’t—”
“Won’t?”
“Put an end to it. Good God! Save what’s left of your life.”
She made no answer, and in the stillness the throb of the water underneath them sounded like the beat of a tormented heart.
“Isabel—” Wrayford murmured. He bent over to kiss her. “Isabel! I can’t stand it! listen—”
“No; no. I’ve thought of everything. There’s the boy—the boy’s fond of him. He’s not a bad father.”