Her cheek was so close to the rough Norfolk jacket, that if it had moved a shade nearer, she would have rested against it. But it did not move; only, the clasp on her hand tightened.
“Were you married very young?” asked Jim Airth.
“I was not quite eighteen. It is ten years ago.”
“Did you marry for love?”
There was a long silence, while both looked steadily into the darkness.
Then Myra answered, speaking very slowly. “To be quite honest, I think I married chiefly to escape from a very unhappy home. Also I was very young, and knew nothing—nothing of life, and nothing of love; and—how can I explain, Jim Airth?—I have not learnt much during these ten long years.”
“Have you been unhappy?” He asked the question very low.
“Not exactly unhappy. My husband was a very good man; kind and patient, beyond words, towards me. But I often vaguely felt I was missing the Best in life. Now—I know I was.”
“How long have you been—How long has he been dead?” The deep voice was so tender, that the question could bring no pain.
“Seven months,” replied Lady Ingleby. “My husband was killed in the assault on Targai.”