“My darling,” he smiled. “I don’t blame you for having a headache.”
A sudden impulse seized her; she flung her arms round his neck and burst into a flood of tears.
“Oh, Paul, Paul, you are good to me. I wish I were a better wife. I’ve not done my duty to you.”
He folded his arms about her, and kissed tenderly her painted, wan, and wrinkled face.
“My darling, I couldn’t want a better wife.”
“Oh, Paul, why can’t we be alone? We seem so separated. Let’s go away together, where we can be by ourselves. Can’t we go abroad? I’m sick of seeing people—I’m sick of society.”
“We’ll do whatever you like, my dearest.”
A great happiness filled him, and he wondered how he had deserved it. He wished to stay by his wife, helping her to undress, but she begged him to go.
“My poor child, you look so tired,” he said, kissing her forehead gently.
“I shall be better in the morning, and then we’ll start a new life. I’ll try and be better to you—I’ll try and deserve your love.”