“I know. But what was I to do? I don’t want to lose touch altogether with my ain folk.”
“I have no folk,” he said, “so I can’t understand these family ties. I think them a bore. But if you had a good time that’s the chief thing. You’ve a lot of friends at the Bay, and you find pleasure in them. My friends are silent companions and are better suited to my taste. How did your people think you were looking? None the worse for being tied to this dull person, I hope?”
She laughed and squeezed his hand.
“They were impressed with my staid appearance, and the fact that I am putting on weight,” she said. “I didn’t realise it myself until Jim told me I was getting fat.”
“That is a Jim-like touch,” he returned, and glanced at her cursorily. “The grossness is not apparent to me. Did you meet Sinclair during your stay?”
“Yes,” she said, and looked surprised that he should ask the question. That he had once been jealous of Sinclair was unknown to her.
“And does he still wear the willow for your sake?”
“He isn’t married,” she answered. “But I don’t think that has anything to do with me.”
She regretted that he had opened this subject. The memory of Sinclair was a distress to her. The change in him had struck her more forcibly than the change in any member of her own family. The difference in him was not due alone to the passing years. He was altered in manner as much as in appearance; all the boyish gaiety had departed: he was older, more thoughtful; the irresponsible gladness of youth, formerly so noticeable a characteristic of his, was missing. She could have wept at the change in him. He was still her devoted slave. During her visit he had haunted her sister’s house. He had claimed the privilege of friendship and put himself at her disposal. He was always at hand when she needed him. And never once by word or gesture had he attempted to overstep the boundary of friendship. She felt grateful to him for his consistent and considerate kindness. She did not want to discuss him, even with Paul.
Hallam did not pursue the subject. He fell into silence and left her to do the talking. During the remainder of the drive she chatted fragmentally and brightly of her doings while she had been away. Principally she talked about the children. The sight of John and Mary, the sound of their gay young voices, their insistent claim upon the general attention, had brought home to her the absence of the one great interest in her own home. She wanted children intensely; and it did not seem that her desire would ever be satisfied. A child would have completed her married happiness.