"Leila," she said, "I want to go upstairs to bed." The face became white;
she had fainted.
"Is she dead?" he said hoarsely, looking down at her pale face.
"No--no. Carry her upstairs, uncle." He picked up the slight form and
presently laid her on her bed. "Leave her to me, Uncle Jim. I have seen
girls in hysterics. Send up a maid--the doctor! No, I will come down when
she is undressed. See, her colour is better."
He went downstairs, reluctant to leave her. In the library he sat down
and waited. An hour passed by, and at last Leila reappeared. She kissed
him with more than her usual tenderness, saying, "She is quiet now. I
will lie down on her lounge to-night. Don't worry, Uncle Jim."
This advice so often given was felt by him to be out of his power to
follow. He knew very well that this he would have now to consider was not
only a mere business affair. It ceased to be that when he heard with the
shock of bewilderment his wife's outburst of angry protest. He loved her
as few men love after many years of married life, and his affection was
still singularly young. His desire to content her had made him unwisely
avoid talk about differences of opinion. In fact his normal attitude was
dictated by such gentle solicitude as is not uncommon in very virile men,
who have long memory for the careless or casual sharp word.
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