He closed the door after her and went back to Winifred.
“So we have her with us again.”
“Yes,” she replied gently, “and I don't know whether to feel sorry or glad.”
“Did you know—had you any idea that she was unhappy? I never knew till yesterday—or the day before.”
“I think I knew—before—perhaps because I am a woman. It made my heart ache.”
“But she is not unhappy now,” said Kent. “Therefore you ought to be glad.”
Winifred glanced at him swiftly. In spite of the brown softness of her eyes they were woman's eyes, capable of quick, subtle perceptions.
“But will she be happy, Kent?” she asked, bending down over her needlework. As she had not been able to paint, she had taken in hand, by way of feminine comfort, some sewing for Clytie.
“What do you mean?” he asked, with a man's preference to answer a concrete question rather than a delicately hinted suggestion.
“Will not this tie that cannot be loosed hamper her all through her life?”