“I wish we could have got off tomorrow,” he said, sitting down beside her, and looking at her with a smile. “I would have, you know, if you’d thought it feasible. Why shouldn’t we have been married in Liverpool?”
“Or on board! Don’t they provide a registry office on these modern boats?” she jested with pale lips.
“But next week—next week I shall carry you off,” he continued with authority.
“Yes; next week.” She tried to add a word of sympathy, of affection; the word he was waiting for. But she could only turn her wan smile on him.
“My dear, you’re dead-beat; don’t you want me to go?”
She shook her head.
“No? You’d rather I stayed—you really would?” His face lit up. “You needn’t pretend with me, Kate, you know.”
“Needn’t I? Are you sure? All my life I seem never to have done anything but pretend,” she suddenly exclaimed.
“Well, you needn’t now; I’m sure.” He sealed it with his quiet smile, leaning toward her a little, but without moving his chair nearer. There was something infinitely reassuring in the way he took things for granted, without undue emphasis or enthusiasm.
“Lie down now; let me pull that shawl up. A cigarette—may I? I suppose there’ll be tea presently? We needn’t talk about plans till tomorrow.”