"You don't refuse to let her have it, I suppose?" Mrs Traffle further proceeded.
Walter Puddick's clear eyes—clear at least as his host had hitherto judged them—seemed for the minute attached to the square, spacious sum. "I don't refuse anything. I'll give her your message."
"Well," said Jane, "that's the assurance we've wanted." And she gathered herself as for relief, on her own side, at his departure.
He lingered but a moment,—which was long enough, however, for her husband to see him, as with an intenser twinge of the special impatience just noted in him, look, all unhappily, from Mora's aunt to Mora's uncle. "Of course I can't mention to her such a fact. But I wish, all the same," he said with a queer, sick smile, "that you'd just simply let us alone."
He turned away with it, but Jane had already gone on. "Well, you certainly seem in sufficient possession of the right way to make us!"
Walter Puddick, picking up his hat, and with his distinctly artistic and animated young back presented,—though how it came to show so strikingly for such Sidney Traffle couldn't have said,—reached one of the doors of the room which was not right for his egress; while Sidney stood divided between the motion of correcting and guiding him and the irresistible need of covering Jane with a last woeful reproach. For he had seen something, had caught it from the sharp flicker of trouble finally breaking through Puddick's
