Of course, the thing was a foregone conclusion. He got into the habit of going about once a week, and one day it all came out with a rush—like a stream that had been temporarily dammed.
They were in the garden—the two of them, and something seemed suddenly to snap.
“Come away with me, my darling,” he muttered. “This man is an impossible husband for you. I’ve got plenty of money, and I’m chucking the service, anyhow.”
He tried to take her in his arms, but she drew back.
“Don’t, dear, don’t,” she said, a little breathlessly. “It’s impossible.”
“Why is it impossible?” he demanded. “You love me, Hilda—I know that. And I worship the very ground you walk on. Why is it impossible?”
“Because it would kill Hubert,” she answered, steadily. “I’ve never told you before, Jack, but I must now. You merely thought he was delicate. It’s his heart; and any sudden shock would kill him. And we couldn’t do that, Jack—could we?”
“And if it wasn’t for that?” he asked, dully.
She took a deep breath.
“If it wasn’t for that, my man,” she whispered, “I’d go to the end of the world with you to-morrow.”