“Nothing!” said Vanna. “Nothing!” She raised her tear-stained face, and laid it beside Jean’s on the pillow, and at that touch, at the sound of the broken voice, the hard composure broke down. Jean trembled, gasped, and clinging tightly to the outstretched arms, sobbed out her heart in a paroxysm of grief.
An hour later Robert was again summoned to the sick-room; but this time it was by Jean’s request, and when he entered she stretched out her hand towards him, and pitifully endeavoured to smile.
“Poor darling! I’m sorry I was unkind. I will try, I will try to be good! I am calmer now.”
“Vanna helped you?”
Jean nodded. Robert sat gazing at her, his eyes wistful, like his voice. It was not jealousy which he felt, nor anger, nor impatience—but simplest, saddest humiliation. He had failed and Vanna had succeeded. With all his soul he longed to find the secret of her power.
“How did she help you, dear? What did she say?”
“Nothing! She cried. The tears rolled down her face.”
Robert sat silent, holding his wife’s hand, and striving, hopelessly, pitifully, to understand.