But he gave just a smile of melancholy resignation; and his look told that that was not all. She understood. She understood that they had spoken of Marianne.
"So Papa . . ." she repeated.
"Would rather stay with us, Mamma."
"With us," she repeated. "We three together?"
"Yes."
"It means going on living . . . a lie," she said, in a blank voice.
"Then I will speak to Papa again."
"No, Addie."
"Why not? . . ."
"No, don't do that. Don't ask Papa . . . to think it over again. It is perhaps too late, after all; and besides . . . Papa is right. About you."
"About me?"
"He could not go six months without you. And I . . ."
"And you, Mamma . . ."
"I couldn't either."
"Yes, you could."
"No, I couldn't either."
She suddenly passed her hands along his face, along his shoulders, his knees, as though she wished to feel him, to feel the reality . . . the reality of her life. He . . . he was the real thing, the truth; but all the rest between her husband and her was
