She hadn’t much doubt now.
“I’d like to know, though, Barty,” she said quietly. “I’d rather know.”
“I can’t see that it makes any difference what Stafford says or thinks. After all—”
“I want to know, Barty!”
It seemed to her that this was the first time she had really felt like Barty’s wife, with a wife’s dignity, a wife’s right to know what concerned her husband. She saw that he felt this, too, for his high-handed air was conspicuously absent.
“Well,” he said, “if you must know, he made the devil of a row.”
“Oh, Barty! But how unkind and unreasonable of him!”
“Well, you see,” said Barty reluctantly, “he’s sick, and—”
“Sick?”
“Some trouble with his eyes. Can’t use them for a week or so. He wanted me to put off going away.”