“The museum?” she asked, with a sinking heart, but with a bright expression of interest.
“No,” he answered, with a trace of impatience. “That can’t be hurried. This is a bit of hack work—a plan for remodeling a house that ought to be blotted out of existence.”
“I hate you to do work like that, Barty!”
“Oh, do you?” said he, smiling. “Well, I’ll tell you what it means, Jacko. The fellow’s coming to look at the plans to-morrow, and if he likes ’em—which he will—it means a week off for you and me.”
“Oh, Barty! You don’t mean that we could go away together for a whole week?” she cried. “Oh, Barty!”
“Don’t, Jacko!” said he, turning away his head. “It—it makes me feel like a brute. You know, I had meant you to have a honeymoon in Europe.”
“As if I cared!”
“Well, I care,” said he, with a sort of fierceness. “You deserve it. You deserve—Jacko, you deserve more than I can ever give you in all my life!” He met her eyes, which were bright with unshed tears. “No one like you, Jacko!” he ended huskily.
IV
She made up her mind not to count upon that week together. She felt sure that something would happen to prevent it, that Miss Clarke wouldn’t let her go, that Barty would be detained by some important work.