The Canon took her hand, and, raising it reverently to his lips, kissed it. His wife didn’t mind this, because in sorrow, as in sickness, there is no sex. Nobody enjoys kissing the hand of the sick. She minded nothing the Canon did so long as he didn’t enjoy it.
‘Yes—and he’s bringing her here to-night,’ gasped Mrs. Luke, struggling to keep down a fresh outburst.
‘Here? Bringing her here? Without first asking your permission and forgiveness?’ cried the Canon. ‘Disgraceful. Outrageous. Unpardonable.’
‘Oh, isn’t it, isn’t it——’ wept Mrs. Luke into her handkerchief.
Never, never could she forgive Jocelyn. No, she never, never would. Let him manage for himself now. Let him lie as best he could on the miserable bed he had made. She would tell him so plainly, and though she couldn’t help his coming there that night she would insist that he should go away again next morning and never, never come back....
And then, over the top of her handkerchief, she saw him standing there, standing in the back-door looking at her: Jocelyn; the light of her eyes; the only thing really in her life.
‘Jocelyn—oh, Jocelyn!’
She gave a kind of sobbing sigh; she struggled to her feet; she stood, swaying a moment, holding on to the table; and then simply ran to him.
§
‘Mother——’