It was a day packed with excitement—not the least of which was getting rid of those importunate journalists, to whom I refused all information. I told them to go to—Corisco; gave them Gran'pa's address; and wished them a pleasant voyage.
Time sped by on wings. Weeks passed. Like a girl with a new frock, Sally displayed her youth to her friends—timidly at first, and then with a sort of reckless abandon. Her vivacity and enthusiasm made Gran'pa's initial exploits seem puerile and lukewarm. The illustrated papers clamored for her portrait and she even had several offers to go on the stage "for big money," as one man with a thick voice and a thicker waist put it.
But she kept her head throughout and never forgot the dignity of her position as a pioneer in real feminine rejuvenation. Finally, after one of the happiest months in my life, she decided to return to her flat in Maida Vale.
Giving her time to get straight, I called one afternoon.
"I'm so pleased to see you, George," she said; but she seemed to be a little depressed.
"You look worried," I replied.
"I'm . . . quite all right . . . really! It's just a headache. . . ."
I knew that this was not wholly true.
"Won't you confide in me?" I asked.
"It's . . ." she hesitated.