Patricia saw Peter wince; turned away to draw the brown window-curtains. Fanny clattered in with the tea-tray; put it down on a stool by the fireplace.
“Where are you going to sit, Pat?” Peter was still on his feet, back to the fire.
“In your chair, I think.” She smiled at him. He walked gingerly round the tea-tray; drew himself up a third chair. She poured out; handed them their cups, plates, cakes and bread-and-butter. Talk languished. “What have you two been discussing all the afternoon?” she asked.
“Suicide,” grinned Francis; “nice cheery topic!” and went on, Peter approving, to elaborate his theory.
“Suicide’s the last act of a coward,” decided Patricia.
“Or an altruist,” interrupted Francis.
“What the devil’s an altruist?” asked Peter.
“An altruist”—Patricia rose from the tea-table—“is a woman who leaves a nice comfortable fire to see that Elizabeth doesn’t drown Evelyn and Primula in their baths.”
But she went upstairs heavy-hearted; found no joy in the laughter of her children, in their bath-games, their quaint prayers, their snuggling “good-nights.” . . .