When Lady Kingsmead had spoken, he cleared his throat and began
hurriedly: "Antoinette--my--my wife is dead."
"Good Lord, Gerald, how you startled me! Is she really?"
"Yes, I--I saw her this morning."
"Drink?" asked Lady Kingsmead, pleasantly.
He frowned. "No. Cancer."
"How--horrid!"
She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.
"You look ill, poor dear. What is the matter? _Your_ looks are a bit on
the blink, too, Gerry! You must buck up."
She sat down and dabbed gingerly at her eyes with a scrap of
handkerchief. "It _is_ rather tragic, in its very insignificance, isn't
it? Well--what is it? Is it Brigit?"
Mutely and miserably he bowed his head, until she saw the carefully
concealed thin place on his crown.
"I thought so. It's no good, Gerald--give me the cat, will you?--she
dislikes you."
"She loathes me. And I would be burnt to death for her to-morrow."
She started at something in his tone--something she had not heard for
years.
"Can't you get over it?"
"No."
"Then----"
"Oh, my God, Tony, _I_ don't know. Can't--can't you help me?"
"I!"
"Yes. She can't love that boy; he is utterly insignificant. She's
marrying him for his money.
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