The delicate, wrinkled hand came out from under the cashmere shawl to stroke her arm. It kept on stroking, a long, loving, slow caress. It made her queerly aware of her arm—white and slender under the big puff of the sleeve—lying across Mrs. Sutcliffe's lap.
"He'll be happier in his garden at Agaye."
She heard herself assenting. "He'll be happier." And breaking out. "But
I shall never be happy again."
"You mustn't say that, my dear."
The hand went on stroking.
"There's no place on earth," she said, "where I'm so happy as I am here."
Suddenly the hand stopped; it stiffened; it drew back under the cashmere shawl.
She turned her head towards Mr. Sutcliffe in his chair on the other side of the hearthrug.
His face had a queer, strained look. His eyes were fixed, fixed on the white, slender arm that lay across his wife's lap.
And Mrs. Sutcliffe's eyes were fixed on the queer, strained face.