It was Rose Otway who led Sir John Blake by the hand down the passage. The dreadful sounds coming from Mrs. Robey’s sitting-room had died down a little, but they still pierced one listener’s heart.
“Do be kind to her,” whispered the girl. “Think what she must be going through. She was so happy about him this morning——”
“Yes, yes! You’re quite right,” he said hastily. “I’ve been a brute—I know that. I promise you to do my best. And Rose?”
“Yes,” she said.
“What that man said is right—quite right. What we’ve got to do now is to start the boy on the right way—nothing else matters.”
She nodded.
“You and I can do it.”
“Yes, I know we can—and will,” said Rose; and then she opened the door of Mrs. Robey’s sitting-room.
At the sight of her husband, Lady Blake’s sobs died down in long, convulsive sighs.
“Come, my dear,” he said, in rather cold, measured tones. “This will not do. You must try for our boy’s sake to pull yourself together. After all, it might have been much worse. He might have been killed.”