“But you tell me your reason approves,” insisted poor Hugh.
“Faith is on a different plane from reason. I am hurting you. It goes to my heart to do it. But I can’t pretend.”
Hugh rose, and, stooping over her, kissed her forehead.
“I will leave you to yourself to-day, if you wish it.”
“You would be doing me a kindness, Hugh,” she replied.
He left her, and betook himself to the library of his club, where, surrounding himself with books and sheets of manuscript, he made a pretence of work a barrier against intrusive acquaintances.
Irene went upstairs to the nursery, and, dismissing the nursemaid, took the boy on her lap, and drew her arms tightly round him. The tears came from an overfull heart and trickled down upon the chubby cheek. He disengaged himself and looked her in the face, and then, reminiscent of a lugubrious story that Susan had been telling him:
“Is daddy dead?” he asked with cheerful sympathy.
“No, darling. He——”
She could not say more. A lump rose in her throat.