Lethbury surprised him. Late in the afternoon
she entered the library, so breathless and inarticulate that he
scented a catastrophe.
"I've done it!" she cried.
"Done what?"
"Told him." She nodded toward the door. "He's just gone. Jane is
out, and I had a chance to talk to him alone."
Lethbury pushed a chair forward and she sank into it.
"What did you tell him? That she is _not_ always--"
Mrs. Lethbury lifted a tragic eye. "No; I told him that she always
_is_--"
"Always _is_--?"
"Yes."
There was a pause. Lethbury made a call on his hoarded philosophy.
He saw Jane suddenly reinstated in her evening seat by the library
fire; but an answering chord in him thrilled at his wife's heroism.
"Well--what did he say?"
Mrs. Lethbury's agitation deepened. It was clear that the blow had
fallen.
"He...he said...that we...had never understood Jane...
or appreciated her..." The final syllables were lost in her
handkerchief, and she left him marvelling at the mechanism of a
woman.
After that, Lethbury faced the future with an undaunted eye. They
had done their duty--at least his wife had done hers--and they were
reaping the usual harvest of ingratitude with a zest seldom accorded
to such reaping. There was a marked change in Mr. Budd's manner, and
his increasing coldness sent a genial glow through Lethbury's
system. It was easy to bear with Jane in the light of Mr. Budd's
disapproval.
There was a good deal to be borne in the last days, and the brunt of
it fell on Mrs.
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