He asked Emily, however, to wait a moment.  “I have a letter to answer.  I should like your advice.”

Wondering a little, she sat down by the fire.  The peacocky scarf gave out glittering lights of blue and green.  She was tired and there were shadows under her eyes.

He came at once to his proposition.  “I am thinking of going to France, Emily.  If I do, can you stay with Jean?”

She turned her startled gaze upon him.  “To France?  Why?”

He told her.  “They have been writing to me for weeks, and now the moment for my decision has come.  I haven’t said anything to Jean.  But she won’t keep me back.  You know how she feels.  But unless you can come, I can’t leave her.”

“I should have to be all day in my shop.”

“I know, but you could be here in the evening and at night, and she could, of course, be with you in the shop, she likes that—­and it would keep her from brooding.  Or, if you will give up the shop, I should like to make it financially possible for you, Emily.”

She shook her head.  “No.  You will be coming back, and then my occupation would be gone.”  She hesitated.  “But if I come—­what of Hilda?”

“She may decide to go over, too, as a nurse.  We work well together.”

She was silent, searching for the words which she felt that she ought to say.  So that was it?  They would go together, and the tongues of the world would wag.  And Hilda would know that they were wagging, and would not care.  But he, with his mind on bigger things, would never know, and would blunder unseeing into the net which was set for him.  She felt that she ought to warn him, that the good friendship which existed between them demanded it.  Yet it was a hard thing to say, and she hated it.  So the moment passed.

It was he who spoke first—­of Jean and Derry.  “What do you think of it, Emily?”

“He is very much in love with her.”

“And Jean?”

“Oh, I think you know.  You saw her tonight.”

He felt a sudden sense of age and loneliness.  “She won’t miss me, then?”

“Do you think that anyone could make up to your little Jean for the loss of her father?”

He covered his face with his hand.  “You are feeling it like that?” she asked, gently.

“Yes.  She is all I have, Emily.  And I am jealous—­desperately—­desperately.”

She searched for words to comfort him, and at last they came.  “She will be very proud of her Daddy in France.”

“Do you think she will?”

“I know it.”

“And yet—­I am not really worthy of all that she gives—­”

She leaned forward, her white hands in her lap.  Jean’s comment echoed once more in his ears.  “I like Emily’s hands much better than Hilda’s.”  They seemed, indeed, to represent all that was lovely in Emily, her refinement, her firmness, her gentle spirit.

“Bruce,” she said—­she rarely called him that—­“your dear wife would never have loved you if you hadn’t been worthy of love.”