“How could they?” burst from Jean in a strangled whisper.
Nick nodded. His eyes, meeting hers, had lost their gay good humour and were dull and lack-lustre.
“Yes, you’d wonder how, wouldn’t you?” he said. His voice rasped a little. “Still—they did it. Then, later on, the Latimers came to Charnwood, and Claire and I met. It didn’t take long to love her—you can understand that, can’t you?”
“Oh, Nick—yes! She is so altogether lovable.”
“But understand this, too,”—and the sudden sternness that gripped his speech reminded her sharply of his brother—“we recognise that that is all there can ever be between us. Just the knowledge that we love each other. I think even that helps to make her life—more bearable.”
He fell silent, and presently Jean stretched out a small, friendly hand.
“Thank you for telling me, Nick,” she said. “Perhaps some day you’ll be happy—together. You and Claire. It sounds a horrible thing to say—to count on—I know, but a man who takes drugs——”
Nick interrupted her with a short laugh.
“You needn’t count on Latimer’s snuffing out, if that’s what you mean. He is an immensely strong man—like a piece of steel wire. It will take years for any drug to kill him. I sometimes think”—bitterly—“that it will kill Claire first.”