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Staines wrote home to his wife: he told her how deeply he had felt the bereavement; but did not dwell on that; his object being to cheer her. He told her it promised to be a rapid and wonderful cure, and one that might very well give him a fresh start in London. They need not be parted a whole year, he thought.
At last it came to Mrs. Staines in a roundabout way, at the very moment when she was complaining to Lady Cicely Treherne of her hard lot. She had been telling her she was nothing more than a lay-figure in the house. "My husband is housekeeper now, and cook, and all, and makes me delicious dishes, I can tell you; SUCH curries!
When Winn returned from Davos, Lady Staines decided upon a garden party. "Good God!" cried Sir Peter. "Do you mean to tell me I've wasted that three hundred pounds, Sarah?" Sir Peter preferred this form of the question to "Is my boy going to die?" He meant precisely the same thing.
When we get back to port and the crew are paid off, it is always, ‘When will you want us again, captain?’ and no matter whether it is in a fortnight or in a couple of months, pretty nearly every man will turn up.” “That speaks for itself, both as to the owner and the skipper, and the mates too, Mr. Staines.” “Well, we have not much to do with it.
Winn seemed to see this before he went off but he didn't keep it in mind he ran his head into a noose." "Has he talked to you about it?" asked Sir Peter, incredulously. "I don't need talk," said Lady Staines. "I judge by facts. Winn goes to church regularly, his temper is execrable, and he takes long walks by himself. A satisfied man is neither irate nor religious and has nothing to walk off.
They looked at South Africa for some time till the dessert came and the Plymouth Brother thankfully withdrew. After that Winn allowed himself some margin and Lady Staines leaned back in her chair, ate grapes and enjoyed her coffee. The conversation became pungent, savage and enlivened on Sir Peter's part by strange oaths.
Staines made one or two movements to stop Lord Tadcaster with her hand, that expressive feature with which, at such times, a sensitive woman can do all but speak. When at last he paused for her reply, she said, "Me marry again! Oh! for shame!" "Mrs. Staines Rosa you will marry again, some day." "Never. Me take another husband, after such a man as I have lost! I should be a monster.
Staines did his part nobly. He read; he wrote; he paced the yard. He wore his old clothes in the house; he took off his new ones when he came in. He was all genius, drudgery, patience. How Phoebe Dale would have valued him, co-operated with him, and petted him, if she had had the good luck to be his wife! The season came back, and with it Miss Lucas, towing a brilliant bride, Mrs.
The woman, visited by lawyer's clerk, cried bitterly, and said she and her children had scarcely enough to eat. Lawyer advised Staines to abandon the case, and pay him two pounds fifteen shillings expenses. He did so. "This is damnable," said he. "I must get it out of Pettigrew; by-the-by, he has not been here this two days." He waited another day for Pettigrew, and then wrote to him. No answer.
"Of course he is." The invalid, with the selfishness of his class, then begged Staines to take him out of all this bustle down to the beach. Staines complied at once, with the utmost meekness, and said, "Good-by, old friends; forgive me for not remembering you. It is my great affliction that the past is gone from me gone, gone." And he went sadly away, drawing his sick charge like a patient mule.
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