And our lives could not run in the same channel. Do not be sad.'
'I'm afraid I am, though. Very sad,' said Jill. She held Marthe Ludérac's hand and they moved towards the door. She was wondering whether she should ever see her again. What would Marthe feel if she were to tell her that she and Dick might leave Buissac next morning? 'But no,' she said to herself, 'Dick will be all right again when he comes in from his walk.'
They had gone together to the door, and, pausing there, Marthe still seemed to defer the farewell. She glanced at Jill and her face altered. 'There is one more thing I would speak of with you,' she said, and Jill saw that she nerved herself.
'Yes? What is it, Marthe?'
'It is something I wish to ask.' Standing there, her eyes on Jill's, her face resumed the look it had worn on first entering.
'But of course you may ask anything.'
'It is this. Only a little thing.' She tried to speak calmly, but her voice was shallow, breathless. 'Will your husband, please, not come in the mornings when Tread? Will you ask him? It is a little thing. He will grant it to you. Madame de Lamouderie has so few joys. It grieves me to see her happiness in being with your husband spoiled for her.'
It seemed, indeed, a little thing, but Jill stood there, astonished; she did not know what to say. 'But—he thought it would be more cheerful for her—to listen
