He's
always ready to take you anywhere, and now he's built you this house in
the country. It's not as if you had anything of your own."
"No."
Again James looked at her; he could not make out the expression on her
face. She looked almost as if she were going to cry, and yet....
"I'm sure," he muttered hastily, "we've all tried to be kind to you."
Irene's lips quivered; to his dismay James saw a tear steal down her
cheek. He felt a choke rise in his own throat.
"We're all fond of you," he said, "if you'd only"--he was going to say,
"behave yourself," but changed it to--"if you'd only be more of a wife
to him."
Irene did not answer, and James, too, ceased speaking. There was
something in her silence which disconcerted him; it was not the silence
of obstinacy, rather that of acquiescence in all that he could find to
say. And yet he felt as if he had not had the last word. He could not
understand this.
He was unable, however, to long keep silence.
"I suppose that young Bosinney," he said, "will be getting married to
June now?"
Irene's face changed. "I don't know," she said; "you should ask her."
"Does she write to you?" No.
"How's that?" said James. "I thought you and she were such great
friends.
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