“Only last year,” replied Beatrice.
Mr. Allport made a sound expressing astonishment and dismay. Little by little Beatrice told him so much: “Her husband had got entangled with another woman. She herself had put up with it for a long time. At last she had brought matters to a crisis, declaring what she should do. He had killed himself—hanged himself—and left her penniless. Her people, who were very wealthy, had done for her as much as she would allow them. She and Frank and Vera had done the rest. She did not mind for herself; it was for Frank and Vera, who should be now enjoying their careless youth, that her heart was heavy.”
There was silence for a time. Mr. Allport murmured his sympathy, and sat overwhelmed with respect for this little woman who was unbroken by tragedy. The bell rang in the kitchen. Vera entered.
“Oh, what a nice smell! Sitting in the dark, mother?”
“I was just trying to cheer up Mr. Allport; he is very despondent.”
“Pray do not overlook me,” said Mr. Allport, rising and bowing.
“Well! I did not see you! Fancy your sitting in the twilight chatting with the mater. You must have been an unscrupulous bore, maman.”
“On the contrary,” replied Mr. Allport, “Mrs. MacNair has been so good as to bear with me making a fool of myself.”
“In what way?” asked Vera sharply.
