“I’m very tired,” said Edith gently to her husband. “I think, if you don’t want me, I’ll go upstairs.”
“Come into my study just one moment,” he urged. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Once more the anxiety flashed back into his wife’s eyes. What had happened? What had Helen said? She followed him quickly into his room and closed the door.
“Oh, no, I don’t want to talk to you,” said her husband suddenly, and at the sound of his voice it seemed to Edith as if the whole earth changed.
In a moment she was held--she was immersed--she was lifted into uncontrollable joy. His arms were round her and his kisses were on her hair, her cheek, her forehead, quick as his tears.
“Oh, Edith,” he murmured, “my darling, all these years!”
“No, no Horace,” she cried, struggling desperately against his pity, against the terrible tenderness which seemed to drown the weak resistance of her heart. “I was never unhappy. Did she tell you I was unhappy? Why, I’ve been--you’ve been--oh, Horace, Horace! You’ve been pitying me--I can’t bear that, you know--not that--let me go.”
“Pitying you!” he laughed; he turned her face back with his hand and gazed into her eyes.
“I love you,” he said quickly. “I love you best--do you understand?”