But the Moorlock
Bridge is a continual anxiety. You see,
the truth is, we are having to build pretty well to
the strain limit up there. They've crowded
me too much on the cost. It's all very well
if everything goes well, but these estimates have
never been used for anything of such length
before. However, there's nothing to be done.
They hold me to the scale I've used in shorter
bridges. The last thing a bridge commission
cares about is the kind of bridge you build."
When Bartley had finished dressing for
dinner he went into his study, where he
found his wife arranging flowers on his
writing-table.
"These pink roses just came from Mrs. Hastings,"
she said, smiling, "and I am sure she meant them for you."
Bartley looked about with an air of satisfaction
at the greens and the wreaths in the windows.
"Have you a moment, Winifred? I have just now
been thinking that this is our twelfth Christmas.
Can you realize it?" He went up to the table
and took her hands away from the flowers,
drying them with his pocket handkerchief.
"They've been awfully happy ones, all of them,
haven't they?" He took her in his arms and bent back,
lifting her a little and giving her a long kiss.
"You are happy, aren't you Winifred? More than
anything else in the world, I want you to be happy.
Sometimes, of late, I've thought you looked
as if you were troubled."
"No; it's only when you are troubled and
harassed that I feel worried, Bartley.
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