  They were both in the drawing-room when he returned. "I've written to Roger," he said, to explain his absence. "Perhaps," he went on, "there are other letters you'd like me to write?" "Yes," she said, "it would be kind of you, Henry!..." There was Ninian's uncle, the Dean of Exebury, and Mr. Hare, with whom he had worked ... they must be told at once ... and there were other relatives, other friends. He spent the evening in doing the little services that must be done when there is death, and found relief for his mind in doing them. "I told the servants," he said, looking up from a letter he was writing. "Old Widger wanted to see you!..." "Poor Widger," she said. "He and Ninian were so fond of each other!" She got up and went to the door. "I must go and say something to him," she said. "He'll feel it so much!" She closed the door behind her, and he sat staring at it after she had gone. The matchless pride of her, that she could forget herself so completely and think of the subordinate sorrow of her servant when she might have been absorbed by her own! He turned to Mary who was sitting near him, and reached out and took her hand in his, but neither of them spoke. What was there to say? Ninian was dead ... old men had made a war, and this young man had paid for it ... and everywhere in Europe, there were mourners for the young, slain for the folly and incompetence of the old and the worn and the impatient. He released Mary's hand, and resumed the writing of his letter. Before he had finished it, Mrs. Graham returned to the room. "Poor Widger," she said, "he ... he cried!" She came to the table where Henry was writing, and placed her hand on his shoulder, and looked concernedly at him. "Aren't you tired, Henry?" she said. "No, thanks!" he answered, glancing up at her and smiling. "You mustn't tire yourself!" she bent over him and |
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