She was there—up there in that room now, but... He flung away the cigar which he held unlighted between his fingers, and went indoors and up the staircase.
He remained breathing hard with his hand on the handle of her door.
Would he find that that door was locked—locked against him?
He turned the handle.
She had not locked the door.
She was his wife.
CHAPTER XXVII
The interview which he most dreaded in the morning was averted, or at any rate postponed. His mother had had a very bad night and was unable to get up—she might not be able to leave her bed for a week. Her malady, though not actually dangerous, was disquieting because it was so weakening, a bad attack frequently keeping her in bed for ten days or a fortnight; and complete quiet was necessary for her recovery and long afterwards.