“Oh, no, Edward. It’s more silly than anything—when I am not really ill, you know. I’ve got Charlie’s hand here under the counterpane,” she said again, with her faint little laugh.
“You won’t always have Charlie’s hand, or anyone’s hand, Lucy.”
She looked at him with a little anxiety.
“No, no. I’ll get stronger, perhaps, Edward.”
“Do you feel as if you were at all stronger, my dear?”
She loosed her son’s hand, giving him a little troubled smile. “Go away now, Charlie dear. I don’t believe you’ve had your breakfast. I want to speak to—papa.” Then she waited, looking wistfully in her husband’s face till the door had closed. “You have something to say to me, Edward. Oh, what is it? Nothing has happened to anyone?”
“No, nothing has happened,” he said. He turned away and walked to the window, then came back again, turning his head half-way from her as he spoke. “It is only that you are, my poor darling—weaker every day.”
“Does the doctor think so?” she said, with a little eagerness, with a faint suffusion of colour in her face.
He did not say anything—could not perhaps—but slightly moved his head.
“Weaker every day, and that means, Edward!” She put out her thin, hot hands. “That means——”