facing things. He couldn't let her go on alone like this. And he began to think of reason after reason why he should marry Emma Downes.
She was gone a long while, and presently he found his gaze wandering back to the portrait. The dead husband seemed to gaze at him with an air of mockery, as if he thought the whole affair was funny. Moses Slade turned in his chair a little, so that he did not look directly at the wooden portrait.
And then he fell to thinking of Philip. What was the boy like? Did he resemble his father or his mother? Had he any character? Certainly his behavior, as far as you could learn, had been queer and mysterious. He might be a liability, yes, a distinct liability, one which was always making trouble. Perhaps he (Moses Slade) ought to go a little more slowly. Of course the boy might die, and that would leave everything clear, with Emma to console. (He yearned impatiently to console her.) It was a wicked thought; but, of course, he wasn't actually hoping that the boy would die. He was only facing things squarely, considering the problem from every point of view as a statesman should.
Again he caught the portrait smirking at him, and then the door opened, and Emma came in. She had been crying again. He stood up quickly and the old voice said, "I can't wait any longer." He took her hand gently with a touch which he meant to be interpreted as a sympathetic prelude to something more profound. She didn't resist.
"Well?" he asked.
Emma sank down on the sofa. "I don't know. They thought he'd be better to-day, and . . . and, he isn't."
