"I will never go there again," he said, and on his face there was the blank surprise of one robbed by a friend. She saw it, and all day shame for herself and pity for him strove with her jealousy, until at night she went quiveringly to him where he sat in his little study upstairs, and begged him to take back his words. "I do trust you," she said, "but I'm foolish and very much alone, and--and sometimes I don't feel well, and then, you know--Ned, promise you'll go there when you want to. Promise me." "I have never wanted to do anything but make you happy." "I know--I know. Ned, can you forgive me? I am ashamed. You have all the work and worry, and I have grudged you this. But it's because I love you. Promise me." He kissed her solemnly. "I promise I will try to forget all but the real you, Nancy." "That means you'll go?" "I expect I shall. There, your face has changed already! Oh, Nancy, Nancy, even if there were no other reason, are you not Theresa's--the children's mother?" Again she smiled, a little mockingly. "Yes, but don't think of me as Theresa's mother. Let me be a person too. Sometimes I feel as if I'm just part of the breakfast-room furniture. I spend my life there. No wonder you forget me." "Why don't you go out more?" he said uneasily. "I've no energy, no clothes, no money." "I have brought you very little good." "I don't mind about the clothes and the money, Edward." "What is it, then? My dear, you can't hope to be well if you stay indoors all day. I don't suppose you ever eat anything but bread-and-butter and biscuits. It's not fair, Nancy." "I do my best, dear." Trailing her long skirts, she went slowly down the stairs.