Harry Garlett was staring at the speaker, a look of terrible perplexity as well as acute suffering on his face.
“In any case, I suppose you would admit that our marriage will have to be postponed?” he said slowly.
“Well, yes, I’m afraid it must be—for a day or two.”
And then Mrs. Maclean broke in:
“Before you even decide on that I think you ought to consult Jean. After all, she’s the person most nearly concerned, isn’t she? Though perhaps—” she hesitated painfully, “we need not tell her the reason for the postponement?”
Garlett turned away and stared out into the wintry garden, and there was such a look of anguish on his face that Mrs. Maclean suddenly felt a rush of intense, overwhelming pity for him.
She went across to where he was standing and put her hand gently on his arm. But he made no response.
Dr. Maclean cleared his throat: “Perhaps I’d better go and tell Jean what has happened? I don’t see how we can hope to keep it from her.”
But the unhappy man roused himself: “No!” he said violently, “I’ll tell her myself—I’d rather she heard it from me.
He turned to the doctor. “I know how kind you are——” his voice broke, “but I feel that she ought to hear this vile thing from me——”