“Oh, I do wish I could, sir; but Jem won’t listen to me. He might listen to you, sir.”
“Ah, but you see this is not my business, Mrs Drinkwater.”
“No, sir, but he respects you, and he might perhaps pay attention to what you said.”
“Maybe,” said the artist, thoughtfully. “Well, I will see what I can do.”
“Thank you, sir—thank you!”
“When did you see him last?”
“It’s two days ago now, sir.”
“Well, Mrs Drinkwater, we must hope for the best. I have always found your husband willing and obliging up to quite recently. It seems to me that if matters are put to him in a quiet common-sense way he will listen. Hang it all, he will have to listen! We can’t have you crying your eyes out because he chooses to behave like a brute to you.”
“Oh, my Jem really means well, sir,” said the woman; “I know he does. He has always been a good husband to me.”
Late that evening the artist thought over affairs. It was a pleasant soft summer night, and when he was alone he quietly opened the cottage door, and lighting his pipe, sat down on the little rustic seat which was just outside. There was hardly a sound—nothing but the night wind sweeping through the valley, the far-off plash of water, the purring noise of a big moth as it flew past and then hovered a second, attracted by the gleam of the artist’s pipe.