The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (6.1895)

By H. B. Marriott Watson 241
returned the pressure of his fingers faintly, and looked at him
thoughtfully.
“You look tired, Freddy,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ve had
a very wearisome day.”
“Yes,” he assented with a tiny laugh. “I have had a bad
day.”
“ Tell me,” she said abruptly, “what about Maclagan ?”
He rose. “ Come into the study, then,” he said in another
voice. “ I can tell you better there.”
She followed him, laying a hand lightly upon his shoulder. She
took her seat within the comfortable armchair, stretching herself
out, with her feet to the fire and the red light upon her face and
bosom. Rosewarne leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece.
“ Well ? ” she asked presently in a tone of invitation.
He started. “ Dolly,” he said slowly, “supposing I were—to
die—would you-”
“ Good gracious, Freddy, don’t talk nonsense,” she interrupted
on his halting phrases. “We haven’t come to talk about foolish
things like that.”
He made no answer, but stared harder into the fire. A sense
of irritation grew upon Mrs. Rosewarne. Had he failed in his
mission. If he had, at least she had succeeded in hers, and the
thought consoled her.
“Now, let me hear all about it. Do be quick,” she said.
He turned to her suddenly. “ Dolly, you must answer me ;
please answer me,” he cried in agitation. “You could not bear
my death, could you ? Say you couldn’t.”
“ Of course not,” she replied sharply. “ Why in the name of
all that is decent will you harp on that ? Don’t be morbid.”
“ It will have to come to that,” he said brokenly.
“ Pooh ! Don’t be foolish,” she retorted. She regarded him
The Yellow Book—„Vol, VI. p critically,