She hesitated, but his stern face compelled an answer.
"I don't think that Godfrey would have got on with Alice later on—when she grew to woman's estate. But now, yes, I do think the child's to be deeply pitied. It will be a painful, a terrible memory—that her father died like that."
"I can't see it! A quiet, merciful death, mother—one that many a man might envy." He waited a few moments, then went on: "Of course there will be an inquest, and I fear Laura will almost certainly have to give evidence, in order to prove the receipt of that—that peculiar letter."
"Have you got a copy of the letter?" asked Mrs. Tropenell rather eagerly.
Her son shook his head. "No, the police took possession of it. But I've seen it of course."
They were both standing up now. He went to the door, and held it open for her. And then, with his eyes bent on her face, he asked her a question which perhaps was not as strange as it sounded, between those two who were so much to one another, and who thought they understood each other so well.
"Mother," he said slowly, "I want to ask you a question.... How long in England does an unloving widow mourn?"
"A decent woman, under normal conditions, mourns at least a year," she answered, and a little colour came into her face. Then, out of her great love for him, she forced herself to add, "But that does not bar out a measure of friendship, Oliver. Give Laura time to become accustomed to the new conditions of her life."
"How long, mother?"
"Give her till next Christmas, my dear."