"Dearest, is it too hard? Well, well, I must do it myself, after all. Only that will mean so many more troubled hours for him…. Doris, you will do it, for his sake and mine? After all, what does the whole affair signify? Simply that you and I will have so much less to spend later,—and do you mind that?"
He had won, or, at all events, filial love had won. It is the other sort of love that pride may withstand to the last.
She did a thing then that he would remember when he was an old man: drew his hand to her lips. The colour rushed to his face. "Not that, dear!"
She rose and he supported her, for she was a little dizzy with it all.
"What am I to say to him, Alan?"
"Just say that it is merely what my Uncle Christopher would have done, had he known. And tell him to get well quickly, because I want him to come to Grey House for a change, at the earliest possible day. I want you and Mrs. Lancaster also, Doris. Will you come?"
She shook her head. "I'm afraid—"
"Never mind now. I'll write to Mrs. Lancaster to-night, and perhaps I may see her to-morrow."
"You—you won't tell her about this, Alan?"
"Certainly not. I've forgotten about it," he said, with a smile intended to be encouraging. "And I'll go at once. Perhaps that will make it a little easier for you. As soon as you've seen your father, you ought to turn in. Will you?"
She attempted to smile, but her voice was grave. "I will do anything you wish—now and always. I can't thank you, Alan dear, but God knows—" She could say no more.