“I would much rather he had been killed,” she exclaimed vehemently. “Oh, John, you don’t know, you don’t understand, what this will mean to him!”
“Don’t I?” he asked. He set his teeth. And then, “You’re acting very wrongly!” he said sternly. “We’ve got to face this thing out. Remember what Sir Jacques said to you.” He waited a moment, then, in a gentler, kinder tone, “Rose and I are going out for a walk, and we want you to come too.”
“Oh, I don’t think I could do that.” She spoke uncertainly, and yet even he could see that she was startled, surprised, and yes, pleased.
“Oh, yes, you can!” Rose came forward with the poor lady’s hat and black lace cloak. Very gently, but with the husband’s strong arm gripping the wife’s rather tightly, they between them led her out of the front door into the Close.
“I think,” said Sir John mildly, “that you had better run back and get your hat, Rose.”
She left them, and Sir John Blake, letting go of his wife’s arm looked down into her poor blurred face for a moment. “That girl,” he said hoarsely, “sets us both an example, Janey.”
“That’s true,” she whispered, “But John?”
“Don’t you sometimes feel dreadfully jealous of her?”
“I? God bless my soul, no!” But a very sweet smile, a smile she had not seen shed on her for many, many years, lit up his face. “We’ll have to think more of one another, and less of the boy—eh, my dear?”