Sally slipped out of the room with her. They stood in the narrow drab passage—two black-clothed figures notably contrasted in age and development. Mrs. Tennant was so stout, and Sally so slim, that the difference between them was emphasised by the similarity of clothing.
"My husband's mother's dead. He was awfully fond of her. He's been ill ever since, and the doctor said he'd better come away."
"You're ill yourself, you know, Mrs. Merrick," exclaimed Mrs. Tennant.
"I've been nursing him a month—night and day. He's not strong. We'd barely got back when she died. What with his illness, and the business—it's been terrible!"
Sally was watching Mrs. Tennant—she did not know why. She felt defensive. All was the result of her own position and the dreadful knowledge which she had of her last night's temptation. She looked like a young girl, but so pale and hollow-eyed that she would have aroused pity in any woman of experience.
"But it's you. I know Mr. Merrick. I've often seen him queer. But you're so changed. When you were here before...."
"I know. I'm ill."
"I said to my sister how strong and bright you were. We both thought you'd make a—well, a new man of Mr. Merrick."
"It's only his mother's dying like that. He was worried about her, and then she died; and he just went to pieces. He had to be put to bed at once. I'll put him to bed again as soon as we've had something to eat. He's so weak. It's the change he wants, and the fresh air."
"And you too, my dear." Mrs. Tennant seemed really to be kind.