“I think I understand, my dear. I am so sorry.”
There was a note of sympathetic pity in her voice that was sweet and soothing in her hearer’s ear. They were both tasting the bitter cup that every man and woman must sometime hold to the lips, and in the moment of their sorrow their friendship for each other became more precious than it had ever been. It was hard to part at the greatest crisis in their lives, to say farewell when they needed from each other the inspiration that the closest intercourse could give.
Cornelius Van Vleck and Percy-Bartlett entered the drawing-room.
“I have great news for you both,” cried the former as he came forward, his phlegmatic face more animated than usual.
They looked up at him inquiringly.
“Your husband and I have a secret, Mrs. Percy-Bartlett,” he went on playfully. “Are you not curious to know what it is?”
“Of course I am, Mr. Van Vleck. Am I not a woman?”
The glimpse she caught of her husband’s face startled her. There was an unnatural flush in his cheeks, and his eyes were feverishly bright.
“What is it, dear?” she exclaimed, rising and putting her hand on his arm. Percy-Bartlett smiled reassuringly.
“Nothing serious,” he answered. “I disobeyed the doctor and smoked one of Mr. Van Vleck’s cigars. Furthermore,” and he looked at his host knowingly, “I fear that I am threatened with an attack of mal-de-mer.”