"Aren't you well?" she thought it permissible to ask.
"Oh yes; I'm all right."
"Then why—?"
He made an effort to be casual: "Well, I just thought I would."
She had decided not to question him—it was a matter of honor or pride with her, she was not sure which—but while giving him the note to post she ventured to say, "You're not worried about anything, are you?"
"Not in the least." He seemed to smother the words by stooping to kiss her good-by.
She followed him to the door. "You'd tell me, wouldn't you, if you were worried?"
For the second time he stooped and kissed her, again smothering the words, "Yes, dear; but I'm not."
She stood staring at the glass door after he had closed it behind him. "Oh, what is it?" she questioned. Within less than an hour the world had become peopled with fears, and all she could do was to stare at the door through which she could still see him dimly.
She could see him dimly, but plainly, for the curtain of patterned filet-work hanging flat against the glass was almost transparent from within the house, though impenetrable from outside. Was it her imagination that saw him look cautiously round before leaving the protection of the doorway? Was it her imagination that watched while he crossed the pavement hurriedly, to spring into the automobile before he could be observed? Was it only the needless alarm of a foolish woman that thought him anxious to reach the shelter of the motor lest he should be approached or accosted? She tried to think so. It was easier to question her own sanity than to doubt him. She would not doubt him. She assured herself of that as she returned to her post in the oriel window.