She clung to him in a passion of love and relief.
"Oh, you're good—you and Len!"
"Nonsense, Janey. You mustn't talk like that. We're not worthy to tie your shoes—we never shall be. How could you think we'd turn against you? It's him, that little, loathly cad, that——"
"Oh, hush, dear—I can't bear it."
His rage was stronger and fiercer than Len's, his whole body quivered in the passion of it. Then suddenly it changed unaccountably to grief, and his head fell back against her shoulder, the eyes dull, the mouth old and drawn. She thought it was for her, and he hugged his poor, dead secret too tight to grant her the mercy of disillusion.
The night wore on, and they clung together on the hearthstone, where cinders fell and glowed, making the only sound, the only light, in the room. Two lost children, they huddled together in the only warm place they had left—each other's arms.
There was a feeble sigh, a feeble stirring in the bed—just as the first of the morning came between the curtains, and pointed like a finger into the gloom.
"Lenny...."
Janet and Nigel rose, wearily dropping their stiff arms from each other, and went over to the bed.
"How long have you been awake?"