“Can’t pledge you more than my honor, Billy.”
The check was signed. He had gained a new lease on life. His contrition left him, expelled by his fatal optimism. He was again a facetious dog, whose paltry mistakes lay in the distant past. At parting he tipped Peter a pound, with characteristic careless generosity. As he walked down the Terrace, he tilted his hat to a more jaunty angle. On his way to the station he bought some flashy jewelry for Jehane and the children. Long before he reached Sand-port, he had so far risen in his own estimation that he thought of himself as a bold financier, who had done a most excellent stroke of business in an incredibly short space of time. As for Barrington—oh, he’d always been narrowminded. The money was a loan that he’d soon pay back.
As he approached Madeira Lodge, Jehane was watering flowers in the garden. He hailed her from a distance, “Hulloa, Duchess!”
She, being penitent for a treachery of which he had no knowledge, restrained her disgust at the detested nickname. She was going to be a good and faithful wife—she had quite made up her mind. The street-door had scarcely shut behind them, when she flung her arms about him. He was taken by surprise.
“I was lonely without you, Ocky—that’s why I came back.”
“Lonely! Lonely for me?”
“Yes. Why—why not?”
“Dun’ know. Sounds odd from you, old lady.”
“From me? From your wife? Didn’t you feel the house—feel it empty with me away?”
His hands clutched at her shoulders. “And when you were not away sometimes. Old gel, I’ve always been lonely for you.”