“Why, I thought I’d come and chat while you worked, and—Joseph, my dear, don’t—don’t look like that!”
“It’s of no use, old girl,” said the doctor with a sigh; “we may just as well look it boldly in the face. I’m sick of all this make-believe.”
“And so am I, dear. Let us be open.”
“Ah, well! I will. Who is a man to be open to if not to his old wife?”
“There!” sobbed Mrs Luttrell, making a brave effort over herself, and speaking cheerfully. “I’m ready to face everything now.”
“Even poverty, my dear?”
“Even poverty! What does it matter to us? Is it so very bad, dear?”
“It could not be worse. We must give up this house, and sell everything.”
“But Hallam?”
“Is a scoundrel!—no, no! I won’t say that of my child’s husband. But I cannot get a shilling of him; and when I saw him yesterday, and threatened to go to Sir Gordon—”