'Yes,' murmured Miss Entwhistle into her handkerchief, 'yes—you're quite right, Mr. Wemyss—one ought—it would be more—more heroic. But then if one—if one has loved some one very tenderly—as I did my dear brother—and Lucy her most precious father——'
She broke off and wiped her eyes.
'Perhaps,' she finished, 'you haven't ever loved anybody very—very particularly and lost them.'
'Oh,' breathed Lucy at that, and moved still closer to him.
Wemyss was deeply injured. Why should Miss Entwhistle suppose he had never particularly loved anybody? He seemed, on looking back, to have loved a great deal. Certainly he had loved Vera with the utmost devotion till she herself wore it down. He indignantly asked himself what this maiden lady could know of love.
But there was Lucy's little hand, so clinging, so understanding, nestling in his. It soothed him.
There was a pause. Then he said, very gravely, 'My wife died only a fortnight ago.'
Miss Entwhistle was crushed. 'Ah,' she cried, 'but you must forgive me——'