He took her hand.
"Oh, Edith Delarayne, you wonderful creature!" he exclaimed; "that is the tragedy. You put your finger on the tragedy. If only you could be twenty again, what a wife you would make for me!"
She gave a little sob and fell into his arms. "Oh, my boy, my dear boy!" she cried, and kissed his hand almost with the avidity of hunger, as it clasped hers on his shoulder.
She released herself slowly and lightly dabbed her eyes.
"When are you going away?" he demanded gravely.
"The day after to-morrow," she replied.
"Write to me as usual," he said.
She caught his hand and grasped it firmly. "Oh, Lord Henry, be the same to me!" she pleaded.
He laughed the plea to scorn. "Of course I'll always be the same to you. What do you think?"
She saw that he meant it and moved lightly towards the door. "I must be going," she said, putting away her handkerchief, and trying to control an awkward catch in her breath which was reminiscent of her weeping.