His wife replied, cheerfully, "That is quite true. I never think about them. It is all through Charles, who hated—"
He cut her short in a fit of impatience he was unable to control, exclaiming, "Hang it all! I am sick of Charles. It is always Charles here and Charles there, Charles liked this and Charles liked that. Since Charles is dead, for goodness sake leave him in peace."
Madeleine looked at her husband in amazement, without being able to understand his sudden anger. Then, as she was sharp, she guessed what was going on within him; this slow working of posthumous jealousy, swollen every moment by all that recalled the other. She thought it puerile, may be, but was flattered by it, and did not reply.
He was vexed with himself at this irritation, which he had not been able to conceal. As they were writing after dinner an article for the next day, his feet got entangled in the foot mat. He kicked it aside, and said with a laugh:
"Charles was always chilly about the feet, I suppose?"
She replied, also laughing: "Oh! he lived in mortal fear of catching cold; his chest was very weak."
Du Roy replied grimly: "He has given us a proof of that." Then kissing his wife's hand, he added gallantly: "Luckily for me."
But on going to bed, still haunted by the same idea, he asked: "Did Charles wear nightcaps for fear of the draughts?"
She entered into the joke, and replied: "No; only a silk handkerchief tied round his head."
George shrugged his shoulders, and observed, with contempt, "What a baby."