It was midnight when they left the Trents’, and Jenny stood upon the threshold, a bright figure in a setting of brightness, and kissed her hand to them as they went down the steps.
“I hope you will be better to-morrow, Arthur,” she said.
He turned quickly to look up at her.
“I?”
“Yes. You look so tired. I might say haggard, if it was polite.”
“It would not be polite,” said Bertha, “so don’t say it. Good-night, Jenny!”
But when they were seated in the carriage she glanced at her husband’s face.
“Are you unwell?” she asked.
He passed his hand quickly across his forehead.
“A little fatigued,” he replied. “It is nothing. To-morrow—to-morrow it will be all over.”