She sat in his mother’s chair behind the round tea-table and poured out his tea for him, and talked to him about his music and a book she had been reading. When he looked at her, at her sweet face, soft and clear with youth, at her hands moving with pretty gestures, his heart trembled. That was how it would be if Effie was his wife. They would sit there every day and she would pour out his tea for him. He would hear her feet running up and down the stairs.
When she got up to go she said, “Whatever you do, Wilfrid, don’t keep on thinking about it.”
“I can’t help thinking.”
She put her hand on his sleeve and stroked it. At her touch he broke down.
“Oh, Effie—I cannot bear it. If she dies, I shall never forgive myself.”
“Nonsense. Don’t talk about her dying. Don’t think about it.”
She turned to him on the doorstep. “Just think how strong she is. I can’t see her ill, somehow. I see her there, all the time, sitting upright in her chair, looking beautiful.”
That was how he had once seen her, sitting there between the fire and the round tea-table, for years and years, as long as his own life lasted.
But now he saw Effie. Upstairs, in his mother’s room, as he watched, he saw Effie. Effie—the sweet face, and the sweet hands moving. He heard Effie’s voice in the rooms, Effie’s feet on the stairs. That was how it would be if Effie was his wife.
That was how it would be if his mother died.