Then a silence fell.
The Colonel lit his pipe.
“Home is pretty lonely,” he said. “A housekeeper isn’t like a wife; and Mrs. Ransom is a particularly hard, dull woman. She is more like an old maid than a widow. But she keeps the house well.”
“Well, that is what you want her for, isn’t it?” Mrs. Barrimore said smiling. “And Robert and I would be glad if you spent all your evenings with us. Come in as you used to. There is no reason why you should not!”
What strange creatures women were! Could not Annie Barrimore see what a fierce restraint the Colonel must put on himself if he were to be constantly in the presence of the woman he so loved, so desired? Apparently not! To her it seemed natural that she and he should fall into the ranks of mere friends. But her frank eyes told him that to her, at least, it would be a joy to see him every day, so he promised to come as usual. He did not doubt her love for him. She could not dissemble if she would. But he knew that she would obey what seemed to her to be the call of duty. She felt it to be her duty to stand by that boy of hers, that boy who had suffered so great a loss, and needed her.
That he, the Colonel, thought the sacrifice uncalled for and undeserved did not lessen his admiration for the unselfish, devoted motherhood which he saw exemplified in Mrs. Barrimore.
They chatted on till voices made themselves heard from the garden. The trio had returned.
“Shan’t I just take a rise out of young Philip!” came in Uncle Robert’s voice. “He sniffed at my verses and said I should never get the book published.”
Mrs. Barrimore smiled. “Has he told you?” she asked the Colonel.
“Told me what?”