"Eight months."
"Ever since I went to Paris last October. I was too ill to go, but I went."
Silence.
"I am heavy laden, but it seems I must not look to you for help, Janey."
Janey's heart sickened within her. When had her mother ever relinquished anything if once her indomitable will were set upon it? She felt within herself no force to withstand a second attack.
The nurse came in at that moment, a tall, shrewd, capable woman of five-and-thirty, with a certain remnant of haggard good looks.
"May Mr. Harry come in to say good-night, milady?"
"Yes."
She went to the door and admitted a young man. Harry came and stood beside the bed, looking sheepishly at his mother. If his face had not been slightly vacant, the mouth ajar, he would have been beautiful. As it was, people turned in the street to see him pass. He was tall, fair, well grown, with a delightful smile. He smiled now at his mother, and she tried hard to smile back at him, her rigid face twitching a little.
"Well, my son! Had you a nice day in Ipswich?"