Mr. Rives looked disturbed. "Yes, we are," he said, sharply. "Quite old enough. I would not wish a youthful wife, for—many reasons. There might be—results, which would interfere with my comfort. No, Lydia is no longer young; yet she is sufficiently robust to make me extremely comfortable." The light was breaking slowly on Mrs. Barkley. Her face flushed; she sat up very straight and tapped the table with her thimble. "The expense of an extra person is not very considerable, is it?" Mr. Rives said, doubtfully. "It was in regard to this that I wished to consult you."
"Not more than the wages of a housekeeper or a nurse," Mrs. Barkley said, in a restrained voice.
"Exactly!" cried Mr. Rives—"granted that her health is good."
Mrs. Barkley opened and closed her lips. Her impulse to show him the door battled with her common-sense. After all, it would mean a home for Lydia; it would mean comfort and ease and absence from worry—plus, of course, Mr. Rives. But if Lydia liked him, that wouldn't make any difference. And she must like him—her faithfulness to the picture proved it—and he was an agreeable person; amiable, too, Mrs. Barkley thought, for he always smiled when he spoke.
"Would you live in Old Chester?" she managed to say, after a pause.
"Yes."
"You would build, I suppose?" Mrs. Barkley said, trying, in the confusion of her thoughts, to make time.
"No," Mr. Rives said; "we would reside in Lydia's present abode."
"In Lydia's house? You couldn't!—why, it would be impossible!"
Mrs. Barkley, her mouth open with astonishment, saw, suddenly, that this project was not comfort plus William, but William minus comfort. "You couldn't! The chimney in the parlor is dreadful; it smokes whenever the wind is from the west."