"Yes. She is all I have, Emily. And I am jealous—desperately—desperately."
She searched for words to comfort him, and at last they came. "She will be very proud of her Daddy in France."
"Do you think she will?"
"I know it."
"And yet—I am not really worthy of all that she gives—"
She leaned forward, her white hands in her lap. Jean's comment echoed once more in his ears. "I like Emily's hands much better than Hilda's." They seemed, indeed, to represent all that was lovely in Emily, her refinement, her firmness, her gentle spirit.
"Bruce," she said—she rarely called him that—"your dear wife would never have loved you if you hadn't been worthy of love."
"I need her—to hold me to my best."
"Hold yourself to it, Bruce—" She stood up. "I must go to bed, and so must you. We have busy days before us."
He spoke impulsively. "You are a good woman, Emily—there's no one in the world that I would trust to stay with Jean but you."