"Shall I tell you what kept me awake last night, Jack?" she said then. "I think you have a right to know."
He glanced at her, encountering one of those smiles, half-sad, half-humorous, that he knew so well. "You will do exactly as you please," he said.
"You're generous," she responded. "Well, I'll tell you. I was busy burying my poor foolish little romance."
A deep glow showed suddenly upon Babbacombe's face. He was driving slowly, but he kept his eyes fixed steadily upon the stretch of muddy road ahead.
"Is it dead, then?" he asked, his voice very low.
She made a quaint gesture as of putting something from her.
"Yes, quite; and buried decently without any fuss. The blinds are up again, and I don't want any condolences. I'm going out into the sun, Jack. I'm going to live."
"And what about me?" said Babbacombe.
She turned in her quick way, and laid her hand upon his knee.
"Yes, I've been thinking about you. I am going back to London to-morrow, and the first thing I shall do will be to find you a really good wife."