“Please may I see over the house?” said Spring. “It—it belongs to my husband.”
Willoughby put a hand to his head.
“F-four hundred and fifty thousand,” he stammered. “Then——”
“Yes, dear,” said Spring, entering and closing the door. “We might’ve got it for less, but I didn’t want to take any risks. You see,” she added, setting her back against the oak, “in spite of all your protests, you took my advice. In fact, you married the first one that came along.”
Willoughby tried to speak, but no words would come.
Suddenly he began to tremble.
In an instant, Spring’s arms were about him and her cheek against his.
“Willoughby, my darling, my darling!”
So she comforted him.
Presently he picked her up as one picks up a baby child.