“Yes. Twice. He said the children ought to sleep in the open air.”
“Consumption is one of the particular fears he can’t quite control. That, I’m certain of. I wonder what his other fears are—or aren’t.”
For all her anxiety, Patricia could not restrain a feeling of relief. One thing at least, her father’s explanation had taught her: that she might still win her husband’s love—“even if he is a coward,” she said aloud.
“A coward!”—Heron Baynet snapped at the word as he had snapped at the suggestion of madness. “A coward! Were you afraid before Primula was born?”
“A little,” she confessed.
“Well, multiply that fear by infinity—and you will have some idea of what Peter is going through. And remember, you knew; he knows nothing, except that he is afraid, and that to be afraid is to be”—Heron Baynet hesitated over the word—“caddish.”
Silently, they began to retrace their steps homewards. Already, light was failing among the trees. It seemed to Patricia that she walked in cold shadows—helpless.
“Can nothing be done?” she said at last.
“Without his willingness to be treated—nothing.”
“Will he have to go back to the front in March?”