“You can if you will,” she said steadily. “That isn’t your reason. You can see Oliver afterwards.”
He gave in abruptly, in a fashion that surprised her. He dropped down on to the wooden chair he had occupied at her entrance, and propped his head on his hands.
“My God!” he said, under his breath. “My God!”
Then she knew that his endurance was very near the breaking-point, and the woman’s soul in her rose up in strength to support his weakness.
She got up to take another cup from the dresser, then poured out some tea and took it to him on the other side of the table. He did not attempt to stir at her coming, but the hands that supported his head were clenched and trembling.
She bent over him, all thought of fear gone from her. “Here is your tea,” she said. “Can you drink it?”
He moved then, reached out suddenly and grasped her wrist, drawing her hand over his face till her palm was tightly pressed upon his eyes.
“My God!” he said again, almost inarticulately. “Oh, my God—my God!”
A dreadful sob broke from him, and he caught his breath and held it rigidly till the veins in his temples stood out like cords.
Frances looked on mutely till she could bear it no longer. Then very gently she laid her other hand upon his shoulder.