Rowcliffe sighed.
"What on earth makes you want to go and leave this place when you've
spent hundreds on it?"
"I should make pots of money in Leeds."
"But we couldn't live there."
"Why not?"
"It would be too awful. My dear, if it were a big London practice I
shouldn't say no. That might be worth while. But whatever should we
have in Leeds?"
"We haven't much here."
"We've got the county. You might think of the children."
"I do," he said mournfully. "I do. I think of nothing else but the
children--and you. If you wouldn't like it there's an end of it."
"You might think of yourself, dear. You really are not strong enough
for it."
He felt that he really was not.
He changed the subject.
"I saw Gwenda the other day."
"Looking as young as ever, I suppose?"
"No. Not quite so young. I thought she was looking rather ill."
He meditated.
"I wonder why she never comes."
He really did wonder.
* * * * *
"It's a quarter past seven, Steven."
He rose and stretched himself. They went together to the night nursery
where the three children lay in their cots, the little red-haired
girls awake and restless, and the dark-haired baby in his first sleep.
They bent over them together. Mary's lips touched the red hair and the
dark where Steven's lips had been.
They spent the evening sitting by the fire in Rowcliffe's study. The
doctor dozed. Mary, silent over her sewing, was the perfect image of
tranquillity.
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