Harriet grew pale.
“What could happen?” she stammered.
“My silly little goose, are we immortal?” he replied, “I make a first-rate income, my dear, but have not laid by enough as yet to leave you more than comfortably off, but with your own money——”
“Don’t speak of it, pray don’t speak of it!” she exclaimed, with ashen lips, and noting her distress, Pennell changed the subject.
“You are a lucky little woman,” he continued, “I wonder what some people would give to possess your income—poor Margaret Pullen for instance.”
“Why Mrs. Pullen in particular, Tony? Are they poor?”
“Not whilst Colonel Pullen is on active service, but he has nothing but his pay to depend upon, and whilst he can work, he must. Which means a residence in India, and perhaps separation from his wife and children—if he should lose his health, a compulsory retirement; and if he keeps it, toiling out there till old age, and then coming home to spin out the remainder of his life on an inadequate pension. A man who accepts service in India should make up his mind to live and die in the country, but so many accidents may prevent it. And at the best, it means banishment from England and all one’s friends and relations. Poor Margaret feels that severely, I am sure!”
“Has Mrs. Pullen many relations then?”
“She has a mother still living, and several brothers and sisters, besides her husband’s family. What a sweet, gentle woman she is! She was kind to you, Hally, was she not, whilst you were abroad?”
By mutual agreement they never spoke of Heyst, or the Red House, or anything which was associated with what Pennell called his wife’s infatuation regarding herself.