“There is the little chap at home,” he said, turning his eyes to her with a restored friendliness. “You’re sure you won’t mind him?”
“Oh, I shall love him!” said Edith. “Do you know--you must not be jealous, but that is half the reason why I am so--why I am going to marry you, you know!”
Horace was not jealous. He was very pleased, and he said so.
“But what,” Edith asked anxiously, “will your sister say, Horace?”
“Oh, my sister!” stammered Lestrange. “Do you think she will mind very much?”
“You darling stupid!” cried Edith. “She’ll mind most horribly.”
Then she blushed; she hadn’t meant to call him “darling.” She looked at him anxiously, but he had not noticed it.
“By Jove, I believe she will; you’re right, Edith. I’m afraid she’ll cut up frightfully rough! I thought I had managed to think it all out--about you, you know, and the little chap and me--and Annette, my dead wife.”
He spoke these last words in a voice she had never heard him use before. But he spoke them bravely and honestly, with his eyes on hers. Her courage leapt to meet his.
“My dear,” she said quickly, “I want you to behave as if I had loved her too. I want you to talk to me of her, to let her share our life, or rather to let me share yours and hers. I want you never to be afraid that I do not understand. I come to you to give you all the help and comfort that I can, but I come to you knowing that she has your heart.”