Garwood got up, with a wrench of pain.
“God,” he exclaimed, “I feel old this morning.”
“Ain’t you well?” asked Hale, solicitously.
“Oh, just a touch of rheumatism, I reckon—head aches, too, like the devil. Wait till I kiss the baby good by and I’ll be with you.”
He went into the adjoining room.
“Fond of his family, ain’t he?” said Hale, approvingly.
“I believe I’ve heard as much intimated,” answered Pusey.
Garwood returned with his overcoat and hat and gloves, and they went out. He spent the day with them, tramping about through the rain, and at night took them to the theater, one of the sacrifices a congressman must make when his constituents come to Washington.
When he returned to the hotel at midnight, and went up to his rooms, he found his wife sitting before a fire she had had laid in the grate. She was dressed and her little traveling-bag stood on the marble-top center table, with her hat and veil and rolled-up gloves beside it.
“Why!” he said, in surprise, “what’s the matter?”