The sun was setting on an afternoon in July when Penhallow, seeing as she sat on the porch how the roses of the spring of health were blooming on his wife's cheeks, said, "I want to talk to you alone, Ann. Can you walk to the river?"
"Yes, I was there yesterday."
The cat-birds, most delightful of the love-poets of summer, were singing in the hedges, and as they walked through the garden Penhallow said, "The rose crop is promising, Ann."
"Yes." She was silent until they sat on the bank above the little river. Then she said, "You are keeping something from me, James. No news can trouble me as much as—as to be sure that I am kept in the dark about your affairs."
"I meant to be frank, Ann, but I have felt so alarmed about your health—"
"You need not be—I can bear anything but not to know—"
"That is why I brought you here, my dear. You are aware that I took out of the business the money you loaned to us."
"Yes—yes—I know."
"I have given up my partnership and withdrawn my capital. The business will go on without me."
"Was this because—I?—but no matter. Go on, please."