"Will you be very lonely with all of us gone?" he asked.
"No. There's Bessie; and I shall read your poems. May I?"
"Of course, my dear, of course. They are all yours. I hope you won't think the less of me for them."
"I can't think any more, dear, if they are the most marvellous ever written. You are not eating any breakfast."
"I have had some coffee."
"I shan't let you go unless you eat a lot."
"I'll try, my dear, but before a journey, and so early in the morning——"
"That's dyspepsia, worthy of Uncle George!" She took him by the chin and turned his face to the light. "You don't look well. Didn't you sleep?"
"Oh yes, yes." He ate hastily, guiltily, and she was not deceived, but she did not know the reason for his sleeplessness, nor that he had sat long by her bed that night, watching her quiet features and the shades of dreams passing across her face.
He held her in farewell as though he could not let her go; he said good-bye, and kissed her on each cheek, and hurried into the street, but only to come back again and look dumbly in her face, while she looked into his.