“Monk's Cliff would appear to be an appropriate habitation for him, then,” commented Sara tartly.
They all laughed, and presently Selwyn suggested that his daughter should run up and see her mother.
“She'll be hurt if you don't go up, kiddy,” he said. “And try and be very nice to her—she's a little tired and upset to-day.”
When she had left the room he turned to Sara, a curious blending of proud reluctance and regret in his eyes.
“I'm so sorry, Miss Tennant,” he said simply, “that you should have seen our worst side so soon after your arrival. You—you must try and pardon it—”
“Oh, please, please don't apologize,” broke in Sara hastily. “I'm so sorry I happened to be there just then. It was horrible for you.”
He smiled at her wistfully.
“It's very kind of you to take it like that,” he said. “After all”—frankly—“you could not have remained with us very long without finding out our particular skeleton in the cupboard. My wife's state of health—or, rather, what she believes to be her state of health—is a great grief to me. I've tried in every way to convince her that she is not really so delicate as she imagines, but I've failed utterly.”
Now that the ice was broken, he seemed to find relief in pouring out the pitiful little tragedy of his home life.
“She is comparatively young, you know, Miss Tennant—only thirty-seven, and she willfully leads the life of a confirmed invalid. It has grown upon her gradually, this absorption in her health, and now, practically speaking, Molly has no mother and I no wife.”