"Now, what on earth is it all about?" asked Mr. Browne, as the last sound of his footsteps died away.
"Oh, Dicky!" said Agatha. She had a kind of theory that a woman ought to be above surprises or fears, but lately she had begun to doubt the truth of it. She enlarged her doubts at this moment by covering her face with her hands and bursting into tears. Mr. Browne waited a moment.
"That's right," said he. "It will do you good. Nothing like tears. But look here: why waste 'em? The weather has been awfully dry of late; just stand over those asters, will you, and give them a shower."
It was horrid of him, Agatha told herself, but in spite of that she began to laugh, and when Mr. Browne had gone into the house and brought her out a little sherry-and-soda she felt almost herself again. She was still frightened, however—though not for herself.
"You're awfully done," said Mr. Browne presently. "You ought to be in your bed instead of out here."
"I couldn't sleep," said she. "I am too miserable. Oh, Dicky, I am so frightened; and I haven't a single person to speak to."
"That's what a woman always says when she has the person near her," said Mr. Browne. "Go on"—resignedly. "I'm the person on this occasion. Start fair, and tell me all about it."
She did. She told him everything.
"Fancy his wanting to marry me, when his poor wife is only three months dead! Fancy his forgetting her so soon!"
"I feel it brings me within the pale of crime," said Mr. Browne mournfully. "But I feel sure that I could have forgotten her a good deal sooner."