He sat and bit
his little-finger nail to the quick. Was he, he savagely asked himself,
going to linger on until the little he had managed to save was snatched
from him?
He dashed off a letter to John, asking his brother-in-law to recommend a
reliable broker. And this done, he got up to look for Mary, determined
to come to grips with her at last.
Chapter XI
How to begin, how reduce to a few plain words his subtle tangle of
thought and feeling, was the problem.
He did not find his wife on her usual seat in the arbour. In searching
for her, upstairs and down, he came to a rapid decision. He would lay
chief stress on his poor state of health.
"I feel I'm killing myself. I can't go on."
"But Richard dear!" ejaculated Mary, and paused in her sewing, her
needle uplifted, a bead balanced on its tip. Richard had run her to
earth in the spare bedroom, to which at this time she often repaired.
For he objected to the piece of work she had on hand--that of covering
yards of black cashmere with minute jet beads--vowing that she would
ruin her eyesight over it. So, having set her heart on a fashionable
polonaise, she was careful to keep out of his way.
"I'm not a young man any longer, wife. When one's past forty . . ."
"Poor mother used to say forty-five was a man's prime of life."
"Not for me. And not here in this God-forsaken hole!"
"Oh dear me! I do wonder why you have such a down on Ballarat. I'm sure
there must be many worse places in the world to live in", and lowering
her needle, Mary brought the bead to its appointed spot.
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