Then she came in, looking so pale—haggard almost—and quite unlike herself. She had made no attempt to conceal the fact that she had been crying. She closed the door, held out her hands to him, avoiding his eyes, and rested her head on his shoulder.
That was all right: she was not angry with him. He kissed the wet eyes gratefully, and the lips. But she did not look at him or speak; and although he wanted to say something soothing, he did not know how to begin.
Presently he was startled by a low sobbing, and words came to him: ‘For goodness’ sake, Madge, tell me what is the meaning of all this. Have I done anything to vex you?’
She pressed his hands, to assure him that he had not; but she did not speak.
‘Then what is it, my poor Madge? What can have upset you in this way? Uncle Dick and Aunt Hessy are all right: I am all right; but I shall be all wrong in a minute, if you will not show me how I am to make you all right, like the rest of us.’
She raised her head slowly, wiped her eyes, and went to a chair by the fire. No smile, no sign of relief, but a frown at the laughing flame which rose from the burning log of wood. (That was one of Madge’s own conceits, to have a homely log of wood for the evening fires.) Suddenly she lay back on the chair with hands clasped on the top of her head.
‘I don’t know what to say to you, Philip.’
‘What about?’
‘About being so foolish.’
‘Tell me why you are so foolish, and then maybe some good fairy will help me to tell you what you ought to say.’