‘Whatever happened?’ it ran. ‘Did you get your suit-case?’
That beat him altogether; it interested, it bewildered him. His spirit of adventure was suddenly revived; because it would be difficult, he felt that he must go and explain—explain that he had suddenly seen somebody at the hotel whom he recognized, and who would recognize him, and that the only way of safety for both was instant flight. And so, not because he loved her any more, or wished for a renewal of the entanglement, but because he loved explaining himself out of difficult situations, he felt that on the morrow or the day after, he would go and see her again.
And though this particular episode here finds no further chronicle, since thereafter it became in kind only one of many—suffice it to say that, on the morrow, he did.
Just before bed-time, folding up her work, his wife, who had been thinking her own thoughts quite quietly, looked across at him and said:
‘If you died before me, Jonathan, should you like me to wear widow’s weeds until I married again?’
Mr. Trimblerigg was startled almost out of his skin. Had it come from a woman of different character he would have found it a tremendous utterance. But in another moment he saw that this was only Caroline, Caroline composedly thinking aloud where other people did not.
‘Now that,’ replied Mr. Trimblerigg, ‘is a very interesting question. But it is one which your second husband not I had better decide for you.’
Caroline saw that she was being laughed at. But she had already forgiven him. She kissed him, and went up to bed.
As the door closed behind her, Mr. Trimblerigg uttered a half-conscious ejaculation. ‘O, God!’ he cried, ‘how dull, how dull you are!’
This personal remark, though it might seem otherwise, was really addressed to his wife.