“I couldn't wait another moment,” she said, as she threw herself on my wife's bosom in a passion of tears. “I am so happy! he is so noble, and I love him so!” And she sobbed as if it were the greatest calamity in the world. And then, after a little, in reply to a question—for women are never more practical than in such a crisis: “Oh, no—not for a long, long, long time. Not before autumn.”
And the girl looked, through her glad tears, as if she expected to be admired for this heroism. And I have no doubt she was.
XII
Well, that was another success. The world is round, and like a ball seems swinging in the air, and swinging very pleasantly, thought Henderson, as he stepped on board the train that evening. The world is truly what you make it, and Henderson was determined to make it agreeable. His philosophy was concise, and might be hung up, as a motto: Get all you can, and don't fret about what you cannot get.
He went into the smoking compartment, and sat musing by the window for some time before he lit his cigar, feeling a glow of happiness that was new in his experience. The country was charming at twilight, but he was little conscious of that. What he saw distinctly was Margaret's face, trustful and wistful, looking up into his as she bade him goodby. What he was vividly conscious of was being followed, enveloped, by a woman's love.
“You will write, dear, the moment you get there, will you not? I am so afraid of accidents,” she had said.
“Why, I will telegraph, sweet,” he had replied, quite gayly.
“Will you? Telegraph? I never had that sort of a message.” It seemed a very wonderful thing that he should use the public wire for this purpose, and she looked at him with new admiration.
“Are you timid about the train?” he asked.