She raised herself heavily from her sofa, and went to see, trailing an old shawl after her. Arthur, by way of being useful, put his foot upon the shawl as it went by.
After supper he felt decidedly better, and was inclined to talk.
“I met Davidson this morning in the city. He said his wife hadn’t seen you for an age. Why don’t you go and look her up?”
Aggie was silent.
“You can’t expect her to be always running after you.”
“I can’t run after her, I assure you. I haven’t the strength.”
“You used,” he said, reproachfully, “to be strong enough.”
Aggie’s mouth twisted into a blanched, unhappy smile—a smile born of wisdom and of patience and of pain.
“My dear, you don’t know what it is to have had six children.”
“Oh, don’t I? I know enough not to want any more of them.”