Though he felt sure what her answer would be, his
heart gave a great bound of relief when she answered impulsively,
without a thought for herself or their future:
"You are right, dearest. These things make me love you more. You
are so splendid, Jack. And you never disappoint me. It is Garry's
poor little boy who must be protected. Everybody would pity the
wife, but nobody would pity the child. He will always be pointed
at when he grows up. Dear little tot! He lay in my arms so sweet
and fresh this morning, and put his baby hands upon my cheek, and
looked so appealingly into my face. Oh, Jack, we must help him. He
has done nothing."
They were sitting together as she spoke, her head on his shoulder,
her fingers held tight in his strong, brown hand. She could get
closer to him in this position, she always told him: these hands
and cheeks were the poles of a battery between which flowed and
flashed the vitality of two sound bodies, and through which
quivered the ecstasy of two souls.
Suddenly the thought of Garry and what he had been, in the days of
his brilliancy, and of what he had done to crush the lives about
him came to her.
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