“Is he kind to you?”
“Not always, Howard. He doesn't drink now, so that is over. And I think there are no other women. But when things go wrong I suffer, of course.” She stared past him toward the open window.
“Why don't you leave him?”
“I couldn't go home, Howard. You know what it would be. Worse than Lily. And I'm too old to start out by myself. My habits are formed, and besides, I—” She checked herself.
“I could take a house somewhere for both of you, Lily and yourself,” he said eagerly; “that would be a wonderful way out for everybody.”
She shook her head.
“We'll manage all right,” she said. “I'll make Lily comfortable and as happy as I can.”
He felt that he had to make his own case clear, or he might have noticed with what care she was choosing her words. His father's age, his unconscious dependence on Grace, his certainty to retire soon from the arbitrary stand he had taken. Elinor hardly heard him. Months afterwards he was to remember the distant look in her eyes, a sort of half-frightened determination, but he was self-engrossed just then.
“I can't persuade you?” he finished.
“No. But it is good of you to think of it.”