“How did you break that thing?”
“It ought to be a warning. I didn’t break it; it was meant to break on me. Ellice flung it at my head a day or two ago, and fortunately missed, though as a rule she’s a pretty good shot. I suppose it’s significant that neither of us troubled to pick up the pieces.”
Prescott looked sympathetic, and hesitated, with his half-filled pipe in his hand.
“Shall I go, Cyril? I want to make Sebastian before it’s dark.”
“Sit still,” Jernyngham told him. “I’m in an expansive mood, and I’ve a notion that I’m not far off a crisis in my affairs. Ellice has been fractious lately; I seem to have been getting on her nerves, which perhaps is not surprising.”
Prescott made no comment and after sitting silent a few moments Jernyngham resumed:
“I was rather rash when I ventured to remonstrate about a bill. Ellice pointed out, with justice, that so long as I slouched round and let Wandle rob me, I’d no right to grumble at her for buying a few things. Most unwisely I maintained my point and”—he indicated the broken crock and littered table—“you see the consequences.”
“Wandle is a bit of a rogue,” said Prescott, choosing the safest topic. “I’ve told you so.”
“You have. For all that, he’s useful and I don’t mind being robbed in moderation; I’m a man who’s accustomed to losing things.” His half-mocking tone grew serious. “I wrote to my people, as soon as Colston left, telling them I’d determined to remain in Canada; but if it wasn’t for Ellice, I think I’d quit farming.”
Prescott smoked in silence for a while. Jernyngham had made a costly sacrifice, chiefly on the woman’s account, and Prescott felt sorry for him.