In her earnestness she cleared away her black veil that she might see him better, and it blew out on the smoky wind. He readjusted it for her before he spoke.
“I'll go back in as cheerful a spirit as I can, mother,” he said.
“There!” she exclaimed, satisfied. “That's a good boy! That's all I wanted you to say.”
“Don't give me any credit,” he said, ruefully. “There isn't anything else for me to do.”
“Now, don't begin talkin' THAT way!”
“No, no,” he soothed her. “We'll have to begin to make the spirit a cheerful one. We may—” They were turning into their own driveway as he spoke, and he glanced at the old house next door. Mary Vertrees was visible in the twilight, standing upon the front steps, bareheaded, the door open behind her. She bowed gravely.
“'We may'—what?” asked Mrs. Sheridan, with a slight impatience.
“What is it, mother?”
“You said, 'We may,' and didn't finish what you were sayin'.”
“Did I?” said Bibbs, blankly. “Well, what WERE we saying?”