"How did it happen?" she crooned, and followed the question with many more of the same sort; to which he replied as to a mother or a nurse.
"It's this beastly climate," he complained. "It upsets me every time—though this is the worst bout I've had yet. I really can't stand it, Debbie. Even in June, when you'd think you were safe—just look at it!"
It was raining slightly as he spoke.
"Well, why do you try to stand it?" said she. "Why not come back to your own country? You'd be safe there, if anywhere." "I've been thinking of it," said he. "It has been in my mind all winter—the thought of that good, soaking sunshine that we used to have and think nothing of. The Riviera isn't a patch on it. Aye, I'd get warm there. But what a life—now. I am not like you—I've got nothing and nobody to go back to—I should be giving up everything—the little that I have left. And God knows life is empty enough as it is—"
"Well, I'm going," she broke in. "And am I nobody?"
He sprang up in his chair. "You—YOU going?"
"Time I did," she laughed. "I haven't set eyes on my property and my two sisters since goodness knows when." He held out his shaking hands. His face was working pitifully.
"Debbie, Debbie," he wailed, like a lost child, "will you take me? Will you have me?"
She caught him in her strong arms.
"Dearest, we will go together," she murmured. And he fell, sobbing, on her breast.