“You don’t think Cecily’s looking well, do you?”
“Not at all well,” returned Mayne, quietly.
“No—no,” said her husband, the second negation indicating that he was giving the matter his full attention. “I don’t think she is. She took the baby’s death to heart.” He threw a quick glance at his companion. “She—she wants rousing. I think you’ll do her a lot of good, Mayne. I’m glad you’re able to stay a little while; it’s what she wants—an interest for her. An old friend, and that sort of thing. You must come and look us up when we’re in town.”
“Thanks,” returned Mayne, laconically. There was a pause. Robert took out his handkerchief, and wiped his forehead.
“Doesn’t get any cooler, does it?” he remarked.
“I’m glad on your wife’s account that you’re going to live in town,” Mayne said presently.
Robert looked, as he felt, genuinely surprised. “For Cecily? Why?”
“Don’t you think she’s rather thrown away here?” The quietness of his tone irritated Robert. He reminded himself that he had never really liked Mayne. He was rather an unfriendly brute.
“Thrown away?” he repeated; “oh, I don’t know. Why? A woman has her house—and the neighbors; and she’s very fond of the garden, and that sort of thing.”
“That sort of thing used not to be very much in her line.”