“And, when I come back from London, I hope your dear mother will give me opportunities of knowing her better.”
“She will be delighted; but, going to London!”
“Oh, we spend six weeks in London every year; and this is our time. I was always glad to go, before—London is very gay now you know—but I am not glad now.”
“No more am I, I can assure you. I am very sorry.”
“Six weeks will soon pass.”
“Six weeks of pain is a good long time. You are the sunshine of my life. And you are going to shine on others, and leave me dark and solitary.”
“But how do you know I shall shine on others? Perhaps I shall be duller than you will, and think all the more of Hillsborough, for being in London.”
The melting tone in which this was said, and the coy and tender side-glance that accompanied it, were balm of Gilead to the lover.
He took comfort, and asked her, cheerfully, if he might write to her.
She hesitated a single moment, and then said “Yes.”