At the moment, the study door opened gently—the soft rustle of silk—his wife.
In an instant, she was at his side.
“What is it—what has happened?”
He rose, and extended his hand to her like a blind man. “Dick—”
“Is dead! Oh!”
A long, tremulous cry, and she fell into his arms. “I knew it—I felt it coming. Oh, Dick—Dick, why did they make you go?”
“He died gloriously, darling—for his country, performing an act of gallantry—volunteering to run a great risk. A hero’s death.”
They wept in each other’s arms for some moments, and the gay music stopped of its own accord.
“Netty will be here in a moment, and she’ll have to be told,” said Mrs. Swinton. “The bishop and the others mustn’t get an inkling of what has happened. 119 Their condolences would madden us. Send them away, John—send them away.”
“They’ll be going presently, darling. If I send them away, I must explain why. Pull yourself together. We’ve faced trouble before, and must face this. It is our first real loss in this world. We still have Netty.”