“George,” she said, “I didn’t mean to be an unfeeling beast. But you ought not to have come down. You ought not to mix yourself up in the Arnott’s affairs. You can’t do any good.”
“Some one’s got to see her through,” he said. “You haven’t done much in the way of helping.”
“She doesn’t confide in me,” Mrs Carruthers retorted drily.
“Perhaps you haven’t given her the opportunity,” he returned. “I don’t think you have shown a particularly friendly spirit. Why don’t you see more of her? She is moped to death.”
“My dear boy,” she replied, wholly unruffled, “it is bad form to push one’s self forward where one is obviously not wanted. Forcing confidences is not in my line.” She sipped her coffee, and regarded him with interest over the rim of the cup. “I have asked her in here repeatedly, but she invariably pleads the same excuse; she cannot leave the children. I am beginning to think with you that the possession of children is a qualified blessing.”
Dare made an unexpected exclamation.
“Oh, damn the children!”
He was so entirely sincere that he omitted to apologise. She smiled faintly, and continued her scrutiny of him and the sipping of her coffee.
“Smoke,” she said, “and give me a cigarette. It assists the reasoning faculties.”
He got up, and went round the table to her with his open case in his hand. When he had lighted her cigarette he returned to his seat.