He had no sooner entered than the voice of his friend Gillingham greeted him from the front room.
“I could make nobody hear; so finding your door open I walked in, and made myself comfortable. I said I would call, you remember.”
“Yes. I am much obliged to you, Gillingham, particularly for coming to-night.”
“How is Mrs.—”
“She is quite well. She is gone—just gone. That’s her tea-cup, that she drank out of only an hour ago. And that’s the plate she—” Phillotson’s throat got choked up, and he could not go on. He turned and pushed the tea-things aside.
“Have you had any tea, by the by?” he asked presently in a renewed voice.
“No—yes—never mind,” said Gillingham, preoccupied. “Gone, you say she is?”
“Yes… I would have died for her; but I wouldn’t be cruel to her in the name of the law. She is, as I understand, gone to join her lover. What they are going to do I cannot say. Whatever it may be she has my full consent to.”
There was a stability, a ballast, in Phillotson’s pronouncement which restrained his friend’s comment. “Shall I—leave you?” he asked.
“No, no. It is a mercy to me that you have come. I have some articles to arrange and clear away. Would you help me?”