"Would you have nothing in the past altered, Phyllis?" he asks, suddenly, and curiously, turning for the first time to confront me.
"Some things—yes. But not my wedding-ring, certainly."
"Good little Phyllis," murmurs he, somewhat sadly, "your recovered health has restored to you your good-nature."
"It was not good-nature," I protest, eagerly, feeling strangely inclined to cry. "I said it because I meant it. But come," hastily, fearing I have said too much, "dinner must be ready: we had better go downstairs."
Marmaduke leaves the window, and moves toward the door, allowing me to follow.
"Have you forgotten your manners?" I cry, playfully. "Will you not conduct me downstairs? Give me your arm, 'Duke."
"Your spirits are very high to-night, are they not?" he says, smiling. "I am glad to see you so like your old self, as now I can with a clear conscience leave home."
"Are you leaving?"
"Yes. You know I promised myself to go abroad in the autumn. I will arrange with Billy or your mother to stay with you while I am away."
"If you are going, well and good," I return, quietly, "but do not arrange matters for me. I will have no one to stay with me in your absence."