"Oh, God!—oh, God!"
Something in his cowering, hopeless attitude woke all the divine motherhood in Janey. She forgot her fear of unforgiveness, her danger of a rebuff, and put her arms round him, drawing his head to her breast.
"My poor Nigel ... my poor, poor lad!"—so she comforted him for the shame he felt for her.
After a time, when thought was not quite swallowed up in tenderness, she began to wonder why he let her hold him so.
Then suddenly he rose, and began to pace up and down the room—up and down, up and down, swinging round sharply at the corners, but always, she noticed with a gulp, treading softly for fear of waking Len. She watched him in numb despair. The minutes dragged on. Now and then he put his hand over his brow, as if he fought either for or against some memory, now and then he bent his head so low that she could not see his face. She wondered how much longer she would be able to endure it.
"Nigel——" she whispered at last.
He stopped and turned towards her.
"Nigel ..."
"What is it?"
"For heaven's sake ... don't keep me in suspense."