"
"I am so sorry," Mrs. Waythorn murmured.
He roused himself. "What does he want?"
"He wants to see her. You know she goes to him once a week."
"Well--he doesn't expect her to go to him now, does he?"
"No--he has heard of her illness; but he expects to come here."
"_Here?_"
Mrs. Waythorn reddened under his gaze. They looked away from each
other.
"I'm afraid he has the right....You'll see...." She made a
proffer of the letter.
Waythorn moved away with a gesture of refusal. He stood staring
about the softly lighted room, which a moment before had seemed so
full of bridal intimacy.
"I'm so sorry," she repeated. "If Lily could have been moved--"
"That's out of the question," he returned impatiently.
"I suppose so."
Her lip was beginning to tremble, and he felt himself a brute.
"He must come, of course," he said. "When is--his day?"
"I'm afraid--to-morrow."
"Very well. Send a note in the morning."
The butler entered to announce dinner.
Waythorn turned to his wife. "Come--you must be tired. It's beastly,
but try to forget about it," he said, drawing her hand through his
arm.
"You're so good, dear. I'll try," she whispered back.
Her face cleared at once, and as she looked at him across the
flowers, between the rosy candle-shades, he saw her lips waver back
into a smile.
"How pretty everything is!" she sighed luxuriously.
He turned to the butler. "The champagne at once, please. Mrs.
Waythorn is tired.
Pages:
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53