Cecily had received the intimation with secret resentment. It struck her as discourteous to their guest, that her husband, who had only just returned, should not have arranged on that first day, which was also the last of Rose’s visit, to spend some of his hours at home. As the result of long reflection, she had met him cheerfully the previous evening, and had been relieved to find that he showed no inclination to allude again to the interrupted subject of their difference. She determined to ignore the matter; to behave as though the discussion had never arisen.
Rose glanced at her once or twice as she sat absently stirring her coffee.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked at length, breaking the silence abruptly.
The depth of Cecily’s reflection was indicated by her start.
“Robert,” she answered, laconically.
“What about him?”
“Lots of things. But chiefly how ill he looks.”
“He can’t have heard anything, can he?” suggested Rose after a moment.
Cecily made a little movement expressing ignorance. “She was here this morning as usual,” she said.
“Yes,” Rose agreed. “It can’t be that. And,” she added, suddenly, “I don’t believe he cares any more about her.”