"Yes, dear,"—it was an odd purring sort of voice—"How do you feel?"
"Not very well, dear. I am going to try very hard to sleep to-night. You're rather early in coming, are you not?"
"Yes, dear, I am. But the moon and the tides are right to-night and the wild duck are flighting. I am going out after widgeon to-night. I ought to do well."
"Oh, I see. I hope you'll have good luck, dear."
"I hope so. Oh, and I forgot, Mary, I thought of going off for three days to-morrow, down towards the Essex coast. I should take Tumpany. I've had a letter from the Wild Fowlers' Association man there to say that the geese are already beginning to come over. Would you mind?"
Mary saw that he had already made up his mind to go—for some reason or other.
"Yes, go by all means, dear," she said, "the change and the sport will do you good."
"You will be all right?"—how soapy and mechanical that voice was. . . .
"Oh, of course I shall. Don't think a bit about me. Perhaps—" she hesitated for a moment and then continued with the most winning sweetness—"perhaps, Gillie darling, it will buck you up so that you won't want to . . ."
The strange voice that was coming from him dried the longing, loving words in her throat.