“Anyhow, it won’t do God or Bertram any harm,” said Christy.
He spoke in his sardonic way, but he, too, felt strangely comforted and puzzled at the meaning of it.
When they went back to the apartment house where Christy had rooms, they found Joyce there waiting for them. Neither of them had seen her before, and by a glance they tried to take the measure of this girl who was Bertram’s wife. She was very pale, and looked ill, but wonderfully young and elegant, and exquisite.
“How is my husband?” she asked, and that word “husband” seemed strange on her lips, because of her youthful girlish look.
Janet told her that he was pretty bad.
“It was good of you to wire to me,” Joyce said. “I am deeply grateful to you.”
“He called to you many times on the night he was first so ill,” said Janet.
A little mist came into Joyce’s eyes.
“I don’t deserve his remembrance. I’ve been rotten to him,” she said, humbly, and that humility and that confession softened their hearts towards her.
“He’s been very loyal to you,” said Janet. “ ‘Sir Faithful,’ his friends call him.”