"I apologize for my existence. But you
might go so far as to explain."
Mrs. Roughsedge was silent.
"How is that child?" said the doctor, abruptly. "Come!--I am as fond of
her as you are."
Mrs. Roughsedge raised her handkerchief.
"That any man with a heart--" she began, in a stifled voice.
"Why you should speculate on anything so abnormal!" cried the doctor,
impatiently. "I suppose your remark applies to Oliver Marsham. Is she
breaking her own heart?--that's all that signifies."
"She is extremely well and cheerful."
"Well, then, what's the matter?"
Mrs. Roughsedge looked out of the window, twisting her handkerchief.
"Nothing--only--everything seems done and finished."
"At twenty-two?" The doctor laughed, "And it's not quite four months
yet since the poor thing discovered that her doll was stuffed with
sawdust. Really, Patricia!"
Mrs. Roughsedge slowly shook her head.
"I suspect what it all means," said her husband, "is that she did not
show as much interest as she ought in Hugh's performance."
"She was most kind, and asked me endless questions. She made me promise
to bring her the press-cuttings and read her his letters.
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