All that was good in Somerfield went out toward the loving woman who had played the part of mother to him, a lonely man through his own folly. And all that was base prompted him to take this chance that life still offered: a home, the tender care of a wife in the midst of financial ruin.
He had staked on the last deal of the cards. The costly lunch, the private room, the wine, the flowers ... his own youth ... thrown down with a gambler's hand.
But to the woman sitting there no such sordid picture rose. She was lost in a glory that dazzled her—this wonderful new gift of love!
Tears stole into her eyes over the bent head pressed to her hands—the thick, fair hair with its youthful gloss, the supple shoulders that breathed of strength. Could she—dare she live out the dream? For she knew, at last, that she loved Stephen; that this Indian Summer of life could be hers, a swift thrusting away of age.
No more need she face the lonely years.
Jill would marry. Roddy go forth to fight his battle with the world—to disappoint her cherished hopes. What was left her? The tears ran down.
"Stephen..."
He raised his eyes to hers, bewildered himself by his own emotion.
"I know——" a sudden despair gripped him. "Your children?" He watched her moodily, trying to define her thoughts. Then, as across some silent pool, a mischievous breeze sends an answering ripple, he saw a wave of resentment pass over her tense and delicate face.
"Jill!" The name slipped from her lips. The old rancour against the child who had outgrown her, forming views on life apart from the mother's standard and held to them, strong, rebellious, rose up, flooding her with a painful sense of helplessness.