"Do they, Tommy? Well—I love him dearly—and so do you, don't you?"
"I don't mean that," he returned, with a gesture of impatience; "I mean the way people are who are going to marry each other."
His eyes, so huge in his wasted face, looked eagerly at her.
"Carron and mother think you do," he repeated, "and it makes me sorry."
She did not answer for a long time, and then she said humbly, not knowing how far he understood that whereof he spoke, and therefore obliged to feel her way, "Tommy dear—you forget petite mère."
"No, I don't—but she is old."
"She is younger than he."
But ill though he was, Tommy's sense of humour was still alive. "That doesn't matter! Oh, Bick, darling, I am so tired! And I do hope you aren't—I mean, that."
So, of course, she lied, and the little boy went to sleep, his hand in hers.
When, an hour later, she went to her room, she found a wire from Théo, announcing their arrival in London, and in spite of herself her spirits rose. Things must be better now that he was near her.