“Oh, nothing!”
He gave her up. She was hopeless. And yet his contempt made him feel sorry.
Her hand had gone out to her papers, and was stirring them to crepitations that seemed to express the restless satisfactions of her life.
“Don’t you over-work yourself, Gertrude?”
“I don’t think so. But sometimes I do feel——”
“You ought to have a secretary, some capable young woman who could sit and write letters for eight hours a day. I can easily allow you another three hundred a year.”
She flushed. He had touched the one vital part in her.
“Oh, James, I could do so much more. And there is so much to be done. My postage alone is quite an item!”
“Of course! Then it’s settled. I’m glad I thought of it.”
“James, it’s most generous of you. I feel quite excited. There are all sorts of things I want to take up.”