The thought that he might be mad was succeeded as she looked in his face by the thought that he must be ill. The healthy colour natural to them had left his large cheeks, their fatness was only flabbiness, the small eyes were filled with a strange, pleading, protesting misery as of a man in terrible bodily discomfort.
"Mr Jones, I am afraid you are not well?"
He stopped her with an impatiently thrown-up hand. "It's not that—I'm all right. It's worse—it's my son——"
"The sailor?"
"News has come that the Doughty has gone down. All lost."
"Your son was in that ship?"
He did not answer, but pressed his lips, which were piteously quivering, together, and looked at her in staring misery.
"I am going into the village to wire for—confirmation. Till I return you must keep with my wife."
"But, Mr Jones! I am deeply, deeply sorry; but you must let me telegraph, and you, yourself, stay with Mrs Jones."
"No. She would know as soon as she saw my face. I stole away—I dare not see her." He stayed a minute, biting at lips drawn inward over his teeth. "Our only one!" he said. "No other! When I know—when there is no hope—no hope—I must tell her. I could wish that she might die before—that we might both die."