“It is not—and I should know,” replied Beatrice, drawing a cloak of reserve ostentatiously over her face. Mr. Allport looked at her and waited. Beatrice relaxed towards the pessimistic young man.
“Yes,” she said, “I call it very cowardly to want to get out of your difficulties in that way. Think what you inflict on other people. You men, you’re all selfish. The burden is always left for the woman.”
“Ah, but, then,” said Mr. Allport very softly and sympathetically, looking at Beatrice’s black dress, “I’ve no one depending on me.”
“No—you haven’t—but you’ve a mother and sister. The women always have to bear the brunt.”
Mr. Allport looked at Beatrice, and found her very pathetic.
“Yes, they do rather,” he replied sadly, tentatively waiting.
“My husband——” began Beatrice. The young man waited. “My husband was one of your sort: he ran after trouble, and when he’d found it—he couldn’t carry it off—and left it—to me.”
Mr. Allport looked at her very sympathetically.
“You don’t mean it!” he exclaimed softly. “Surely he didn’t——?”
Beatrice nodded, and turned aside her face.
“Yes,” she said. “I know what it is to bear that kind of thing—and it’s no light thing, I can assure you.”
There was a suspicion of tears in her voice.
“And when was this, then—that he——?” asked Mr. Allport, almost with reverence.
