“I ought to take her out more,” he thought. “She’s so much younger than I am. It’s dull for her here, but she’s never complained—never once. The best wife a man ever had—the finest, straightest girl!”
If she would come behind his chair now and lay her slender hand over his closed eyes! Of course, she didn’t do things like that. There was beneath her gayety a fastidious and almost austere reserve. That was what he most respected in her. She was kind, always kind, but always aloof.
Well, he wanted it so. He would not have it otherwise; but if only just this once he could feel her hand on his eyes, if she would stop and kiss him!
He opened his eyes, ashamed of his weakness; and he saw his brother’s face.
III
Madeline had gone upstairs, and the two men were alone together in the library. Charles sat beside a lamp, with its light full upon him, but Wickham had moved into a shadowy corner.
Some neighbors had come in to play bridge, there had been more dancing and a little supper; and through it all, all the time, Wickham had been thinking of that look on his brother’s face—a look of terrible pain and regret and tenderness. He was never going to forget it.
“I can’t—just go on,” he thought. “It’s not possible. It’s—oh, God! It’s my fault—I’ve thrown them together, and she’s so lovely and sweet that I might have known. Oh, poor devil! That’s why he wants to go away!”
“Well, Wick,” said Charles, with a sigh. “Now for that talk, eh?”
It was hard for Wickham Hackett to begin.