“Oh, but Jerome,” his wife cried, “that’s of no importance—how he signs it—now.” And she wept afresh, as if he had added an affront to her misery.
“Well, there, dear, don’t cry. It’s all right. Must you go, think?” He released her and she sank into the chair again.
“Oh, yes,” she moaned, drooping toward the fire, “I must go at once. Oh, you were so long in coming! I needed you so, and wanted you so! I ought to have gone on that train to-night.” She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Poor, lonely old man!”
The words half enraged Garwood, but he kept silent. He did not know what else to do—only to wait.
“Where’s baby?” he asked presently.
“He’s sleeping,” she said, “in there.” She waved her hand wearily toward the door. “He’s all ready—we’re all all ready. When can we go?”
“Well, you can’t leave now until to-morrow,” he said, trying to be tender with her. “Hadn’t you better get to bed and get some rest?”
“Oh—no—no,” she moaned. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“But, dear, you’ll need your strength, you must try; think of baby.”
“Poor little fellow!” she said, as though he had been deserted. She clasped her knee in her hands and rocked back and forth. Garwood was silent, looking at her helplessly.