She laughed—that little laugh of hers half-gay, half-sad, that seemed like a reminiscence of more mirthful days. "Isn't this romantic enough for you?"
He slipped his arm about her waist. "I'm not altogether sure that I did right to let you come here," he said.
"Oh, nonsense!" She leaned her head against him with a very loving gesture. "I am not so morbid as that. I love to be here, and close to dear old Jim. He hasn't altered a bit. He is just as rugged—and as sweet—as ever."
Will laughed. "How you women, do love a masterful man!"
"Oh, not always," said Daisy. "There are certain forms of mastery in a man which to my mind are quite intolerable. Max Wyndham for instance!"
"What! You've still got your knife into him? I'm sorry for the man myself," said Will. "It must be—well, difficult, to say the least of it, to see his brother come home in possession of his girl and to keep smiling."
"He doesn't care!" said Daisy scathingly. "Geniuses haven't time to be human."
"I wonder," said Will.
He knew, and had never ceased to regret, his wife's share in the accomplishment of Max's discomfiture; and he fancied that secretly, her antipathy notwithstanding, she had begun to regret it also.
He changed the subject, and they went on to talk of Noel.