So till Sunday morning I stayed with him.

It was on my last evening, the evening of Saturday, August the first, that he spoke of Viola.

He asked me if I thought that Norah and I could keep her with us, if necessary, for—­he hesitated—­for six months? (It was as if he had given her six months.) It would, he said, be better.

I said that Norah would be delighted to keep her for any number of months.  But did he think she’d stay?

He said why shouldn’t she stay?  Of course she’d stay.  She was awfully fond of us and it was the best thing she could do.  And it would make it so much easier for him.  He’d feel more comfortable as long as he knew she was with us.

He spoke as if it were he and not Viola who was leaving.

I said then that though we were glad to have her we couldn’t, of course, accept any responsibility—­

He smiled slightly and asked, “For what?”

I said, “Well—­” And he answered his own question in the pause I made.

“I suppose you mean for anything she may take it into her head to do?”

I put it to him that Viola’s movements were not always exactly calculable.  She might take it into her head to do anything.  I really couldn’t answer for her.

“You can’t,” he said.  “But I can.  She may go off and look at a belfry or two.” (I should have said that “looking at the belfry” was a phrase the family had adopted for any queer thing that any of us might do.) “If there’s a belfry anywhere to be seen you may depend upon it she’d want to look at it.”

“Whether,” I said, “it’s in a dangerous place or not?”

“Whether it’s in a dangerous place or not.  But I’ll trust you to keep her out of dangerous places.  That’s rather what I wanted to talk to you about.”

I protested.  “There’s no good talking about it.  I’ve told you that’s just precisely the responsibility I won’t take.  And I won’t let Norah take it.  If you think there’s going to be any danger you must look after your own wife yourself.”

“My dear fellow, how can I look after her if I’m not here?”

“You’re as much here as I am,” I said.  “More so.  And she’s your wife, not mine.”

I can say now—­there’s no reason why I shouldn’t; it would only amuse Jimmy if he were to see it written—­I can say now that for one awful moment I suspected Jimmy of meditating an infidelity.  Perhaps he was; but not as we count infidelity.

He ignored what I took to be the essence of the thing.

“We don’t know,” he said, “where any of us are going to be for the next four months—­or the next four years.  I know that I jolly well shan’t be here.  What I want to propose is this:  that you’ll look after Viola and let her have your house when she wants to be in town; and that you have this house for yourself and Norah and Baby when you want to be in the country—­just as if it was your own.  There’ll be that other motor-car you can have—­as if it was your own.  You can run up to town in it.  And you’ll probably find that the country will be the best place for you.  It’ll be much the best place for them, and the safest—­if you aren’t here.”