Then the horrible thought would occur to him: supposing Gertrude were to go? It was not conceivable, her going. For, above all her gifts, Gertrude was an incomparable mother to those unfortunate children (since Jane's departure Brodrick had begun to think definitely of his children as unfortunate). It was distinctly pleasurable the feeling with which he watched her ways in gathering them to her side and leading them softly from the room when "Daddy was busy," or when "poor Daddy was so tired." More than once he found himself looking out of his study window at her quiet play with the little boys in the garden. Solemn little boys they were; and sometimes he wondered whether little Jacky were not _too_ solemn, too preternaturally quiet for four and a half, and rather too fond of holding Gertrude's hand. He remembered how the little beggar used to romp and laugh when Jinny----And remembering he would turn abruptly from the window with a sore heart and a set face. Three weeks passed thus. There was a perceptible increase in Gertrude's shyness and sadness. One evening after dinner she came to him in his study. He rose and drew forward a chair for her. She glanced at his writing-table and at the long proof-sheets that hung from it, streaming. "I mustn't," she said. "You're busy." "Well--not so busy as all that. What is it?" "I've been thinking that it would perhaps be better if I were to leave." "To leave? What's put that into your head?" She did not answer. She appeared to him dumb with distress. "Have the children been too much for you?" "Poor little darlings--no." "Little monkeys. Send them to me if you can't manage them." "It isn't that. It is--I don't think it's right for me to stay." "Not _right_?" "On the children's account, I mean." He looked at her and a shade, a tremor, of uneasiness passed over his face. "I say," he said, "you don't think they're unhappy?" (She smiled). "--Without their mother?" He jerked it out with a visible effort. "No. If they were I shouldn't be so uneasy." "Come, you don't want them to be unhappy, do you?" "No. I don't want anybody to be unhappy. That's why I think I'd better go." "On their account?" he repeated, hopelessly adrift. "Theirs, and their mother's." "But it's on their account--and--their mother's--that we want you." "I know; but it isn't fair to them or to--Mrs. Brodrick that they should be so dependent on me." "But--they're babies." "Not quite--now. It isn't right that I should be taking their mother's place, that they should look to me for everything." "But," he broke in irritably, "they don't. Why should they?" "They do. They must. You see, it's because I'm on the spot." "I see." He hid his frowning forehead with one hand. "I know," she continued, "it can't be helped. It isn't anybody's fault. It's--it's inevitable." "Yes. For the present it's--inevitable." They both paused on that word. "I suppose," he said, "you're really afraid that they'll get too fond of you?"