“Not more than anybody else. There’s no need to be hurt about it. It’s just as much a sacrifice for me.”
“So nobody makes a fuss over Bill now—is that it?”
“Well, no. Not in the way you mean.”
“Pretty dreary outlook for the kid, isn’t it?”
“It’s all for his good.”
“What a ghastly expression!”
Ruth left her chair and came and sat on the arm of Kirk’s. She ruffled his hair lightly with the tips of her fingers. Kirk, who had been disposed to be militant, softened instantly. The action brought back a flood of memories. It conjured up recollections of peaceful evenings in the old studio, for this had been a favourite habit of Ruth’s. It made him feel that he loved her more than he had ever done in his life; and—incidentally—that he was a brute to try and thwart her in anything whatsoever.
“I know it’s horrid for you, dear old boy,” said Ruth coaxingly; “but do be good and not make a fuss about it. Not kissing Bill doesn’t mean that you need be any the less fond of him. I know it will be strange at first—I didn’t get used to it for ever so long—but, honestly, it is for his good, however ghastly the expression of the thing may sound.”
“It’s treating the kid like a wretched invalid,” grumbled Kirk.
“You wait till you see him playing, and then you’ll know if he’s a wretched invalid or not!”