content.

"... Do you know, Hatty, I had a little baby. It died the day it was
born.... Perhaps some day I shall have another."

Harriett was aware of a sudden tightening of her heart, of a creeping
depression that weighed on her brain and worried it. She thought this was
her pity for Priscilla.


Her third night. All evening Robin had been moody and morose. He would
hardly speak to either Harriett or Priscilla. When Priscilla asked him to
do anything for her he got up heavily, pulling himself together with a
sigh, with a look of weary, irritated patience.

Prissie wheeled herself out of the study into the drawing-room, beckoning
Harriett to follow. She had the air of saving Robin from Harriett, of
intimating that his grumpiness was Harriett's fault. "He doesn't want to
be bothered," she said.

She sat up till eleven, so that Robin shouldn't be thrown with Harriett in
the last hours.

Half the night Harriett's thoughts ran on, now in a darkness, now in thin
flashes of light. "Supposing, after all, Robin wasn't happy? Supposing he
can't stand it? Supposing.... But why is he angry with _me?_" Then a
clear thought: "He's angry with me because he can't be angry with
Priscilla." And clearer. "He's angry with me because I made him marry
her."