"I know, Gillie, and it's sweet of you. But you couldn't be of use and it would be miserable for you. It is better that I should be alone with Dolly. I can always wire if I want you."
"As you think best, dear. Then I will stay quietly down here."
"Yes, do. You have that poem to work on, 'A Lady in a Library.' It is a beautiful fancy and will make you greater than ever! It's quite the best thing you've done so far. And then there's the shooting."
"Oh, I shall do very well, Molly. Don't bother about me, dear."
She held him closer. Her cool white arms were around his neck.
"But I always do bother about you, husband," she whispered, "because I love you better than anything else in the world. It is sweet of you to let me go like this. And I feel so much happier about you now, since the doctor has come to the village."
He winced with pain and shame at her loving words. A pang went right through him.
It passed as swiftly as it had come. Sweet and loving women too often provide men with excuses for their own ill conduct. Lothian knew that—under the special circumstances of which his wife knew nothing—it was his duty to go with Mary. But he didn't want to go. He would have hated going.
Already a wide vista was opening before him—a freedom, an absolute freedom! Wild music! The Wine of Life! Now, if ever, Fate, Destiny, call it what he would, was preparing the choicest banquet.
He had met Rita. Rita was waiting, he could be with Rita!