“What are you doing? Is that my stocking?” he demanded.
A look, half pain, half reproach, crossed her face.
“Why, Cyril, of course not! You—you told me not to, long ago. You said my darns made—bunches.
“Ho! I meant I didn't want to wear them,” retorted the man, upon whom the tragic wretchedness of that half-sobbed “bunches” had been quite lost. “I love to see you mending them,” he finished, with an approving glance at the pretty little picture of domesticity before him.
A peculiar expression came to Marie's eyes.
“Why, Cyril, you mean you like to have me mend them just for—for the sake of seeing me do it, when you know you won't ever wear them?”
“Sure!” nodded the man, imperturbably. Then, with a sudden laugh, he asked: “I wonder now, does Billy love to mend socks?”
Marie smiled, but she sighed, too, and shook her head.
“I'm afraid not, Cyril.”
“Nor cook?”