"Oh! Amaryllis!" he said, and that was all.
"What is it? Oh! what does everything mean?" the poor child cried. "Why, why can't we have a son like other people of our age?"
John kissed her again.
"It shall be—it must be so," he answered—and framed her face in his hands.
"Amaryllis—I know you have often wondered whether I really loved you. You have found me a stupid, unsatisfactory sort of husband—indeed, I am but a dull companion at the best of times. Well, I want you to know that I do—and I am going to try to change, dear little girl. If I knew that I held some corner of your heart it would comfort me."
"Of course, you do, John. Alas! if you would only unbend and be loving to me, how happy we could be."
He kissed her once more. "I will try."
That afternoon he went up to London to his medical board, and Amaryllis was to join him in Brook Street on the following day.
She was stunned like every one else. War seemed a nightmare—an unreality—she had not grasped its meaning as yet. She thought of Verisschenzko and his words. What was her duty? Surely at a great crisis like this she must have some duty to do?
The library in Brook Street was a comfortable room and was always their general sitting-room; its windows looked out on the street.