"Sorry I'm late, Will."
"Don't mention it, Mavis."
Mrs. Dale had come through the doorway, and his whole face brightened,
softened, grew more comely. Yes, he thought, a home fit for a
gentleman, and a wife fit for a king.
"Any news?"
"They've told me to go up and see them to-morrow;" and he moved to the
table. "Come on. I'm sharp-set."
"Did they write in a satisfactory way?"
"Oh, yes. Sit down, my dear, and give me my tea."
He had said that he felt hungry, but he ate without appetite. The roll
was crisp and warm, the bacon had been cooked to a turn, the tea was
neither too strong nor too weak; and yet nothing tasted quite right.
"Will," said his wife, toward the end of the meal, "I can see you
aren't really satisfied with their answer. Do tell me;" and she
stretched her hand across the table with a gesture that expressed
prettily enough both appeal and sympathy.
She was a naturally graceful woman, tall and slim, with reddish brown
hair, dark eyebrows, and a white skin; and she carried her thirty-two
years so easily that, though the searching sunlight bore full upon
her, she looked almost a young girl.
Dale took her hand, squeezed it, and then, with an affectation of
carelessness, laughed jovially.
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