“Yes, I know,” she nodded, as though Jean had given voice to her thought. “It’s just as if someone had opened a window and let the fresh air in, isn’t it?”
She collected her tools, and slipping her arm within Jean’s led her in the direction of the house.
“We’ll have tea at once,” she said, “and then I’ll walk back with you part way.”
“You’re bent on getting rid of me quickly, then?”
“Yes”—seriously. “He”—there was little need to specify to whom the pronoun referred—“will be back by the afternoon train, and for some reason or other he is very unfriendly towards you just now.”
“What have I done to offend?” queried Jean lightly. Somehow, with Sir Adrian actually away, it didn’t seem a matter of much importance whether he was offended or not. Even the house had a different “feel” about it as they entered it.
“It’s not anything you’ve done; it’s what you are, I think, sometimes, that when a man is full of evil and cruel thoughts and knows he has given himself up to wickedness, he simply hates to see anyone young and—and good, like you are, Jean, with all your life before you to make a splendid thing of.”
“And what about you?” asked Jean, her eyes resting affectionately on the other’s delicate flower face with its pathetically curved lips and the look of trouble in the young blue eyes. “He sees you constantly.”
“Oh, he’s used to me. I’m only his wife, you see. Besides”—wearily—“he knows that he can effectually prevent me from making a splendid thing of my life.”
The note of bitterness in her voice wrung Jean’s heart.