“Jack will be like you, dear.”
“Poor child, he might do better.”
He spoke lightly, caught up self-consciousness, and sighed. His wife’s eyes looked swiftly at his face.
“You feel that you can rest here, dear?”
“With you, yes.”
She felt the pressure of his hand, and saw his mouth harden, his brows contract a little. The subject saddened him, brought back the introspective mood, and recalled the darker past. Catherine broke from it instinctively, knowing that it was poor comfort to let him brood.
“To-morrow—”
“What are your plans?”
“Shall we walk to Farley church?”
“Yes, I love the old place, the cedars and yews shading the graves. It has repose—poetry.”