Again there was silence for a while. Then she said: “If there are two decent rooms in the cottage, we could be comfortable enough. And as you say, it would be easier to look after.”
Peer waited a little. There was something in his throat that prevented speech. He understood now that it was to be taken for granted, without words, that they should not part company. And it took him a little time to get over the discovery.
Merle sat facing him, but her eyes were turned to the window as before. She had still the same beautiful dark eyebrows, but her face was faded and worn, and there were streaks of grey in her hair.
At last he spoke again. “And about the children, Merle.”
She started. “The children—what about them?” Had it come at last, the thing she had gone in fear of so long?
“Aunt Marit has sent word to ask if we will let your brother take Louise over to stay with her.”
“No!” Merle flung out. “No, Peer. Surely you said no at once. Surely you wouldn’t let her go. You know what it means, their wanting to have her over there.”
“I know,” he nodded. “But there’s another question: in Louise’s own interest, have we any right to say no?”
“Peer,” she cried, springing up and wringing her hands, “you mustn’t ask it of me. You don’t want to do it yourself. Surely we have not come to that—to begin sending—giving away—no, no, no!” she moaned. “Do you hear me, Peer? I cannot do it.”
“As you please, Merle,” he said, rising, and forcing himself to speak calmly. “We can think it over, at any rate, till your brother leaves tomorrow. There are two sides to the thing: one way of it may hurt us now; the other way may be a very serious matter for Louise, poor thing.”