She said nothing, and, speaking more quickly, he went on: “I have to thank you for myself, as well as for poor Emily. It was such an infinite comfort, each time I went away, to feel that I was leaving my wife with someone I could trust, as I knew I could trust you.”
He waited a moment, and as she still remained silent while looking at him with a terrible fixed look of—was it reproach?—he took an envelope out of his pocket.
“I have made up the enclosed cheque,” he said awkwardly, “to the end of the year. I am glad to say Emily left you a thousand pounds. So I do hope you’ll manage to get a good rest before you start work again. From something Miss Prince said the other day, I gather you’re taking a post connected with some kind of Russian business house.”
“Yes,” she said quietly, “they were the people I was with before I came here, and they’ve often asked me to come back. It’s interesting work, and I’m in general sympathy with their objects.”
“Bolshevik objects?” he suggested with a half smile, and without meaning what he said. But she, without a glimmer of an answering smile, replied: “Yes, Bolshevik objects.”
A look of bewilderment came over his open face.
“I had no idea that you and your brother shared that sort of view!” he exclaimed, “deep as I know is your attachment for him.”
“We agree as to politics,” she answered, as if the words were being forced out of her.
And then at last, almost as if reluctantly, she took the envelope from his hand.
“Thank you for this,” she said coldly, “and for telling me of Mrs. Garlett’s unexpected thought for me. I do not want a holiday, but now I may be able to send my brother abroad this next winter, if he lives as long.”