Mary closed the shutter softly and followed him. His mind was confused. The ordeal with his wife, culminating in this, was too much; he needed help. She waited, standing quietly beside him. He felt her intense sympathy; then he said in a low, hushed voice:
“What could have caused it?”
“It can easily be accounted for. Your wife is subject to violent nervous headaches; she had an attack in the night.”
“Was she sobbing?”
“Yes, she suffered terribly. We must be brave for her sake.”
He looked at her standing there, her eyes shining, undaunted, courageous. Where did she get that spirit? She was no longer only a nurse; she was a comrade, a fellow-fighter; her voice was like a call to arms.
“I was always very happy,” he said. “I mean, I thought it was happiness, but I see now that it was like being under shelter when others were destitute; that kind of happiness is selfish, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Mary. “That’s why I try not to be too happy.”
“My parents were my only friends. They left me; I had only my wife. Perhaps I wanted too much from her; she was unfortunate in her family; I should have taken better care—I—can’t see ahead! I don’t know how this will affect her. I—I don’t know.”
“It will be a blow, but you can soften it for her.”