Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. Degree! degree! She smiled on a gallant of high degree. And his scarlet coat had nothing to do with it, as Hilary was fond of recounting, for he had been in civilian clothes when they met, as he was tonight. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. She hissed in a breath and his eyes met hers. “It’s his birthday. “Well?” she said. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. ‘I can take care of myself, bête. But she veiled her feelings.
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