“Will any morning do?” asked Ralston, also in a whisper.
“Yes, any morning. Now go—quick. That’s enough, dear—there, if you must. Go—good night—dear!”
The process of leave-taking was rather spasmodic, so far as Katharine was concerned. Ralston felt that same strange emotion once more as he found himself out upon the pavement of Clinton Place. His head swam a little, and he stopped to light a cigarette before he turned towards Fifth Avenue.
Katharine went back into the library, and found her mother sitting as the two had left her, and apparently unconscious that her daughter had gone out of the room.
“He’s quite right, mother dear. You are trying to do too much,” said Katharine, coming behind the low chair and smoothing her mother’s beautiful hair, kissing it softly and speaking into the heavy waves of it.
Mrs. Lauderdale put up one thin hand, and patted the girl’s cheek without turning to look at her, but said nothing for a moment.
“It’s quite true,” Katharine said. “You mustn’t do it any more.”
“How smooth your cheek is, child!” said Mrs. Lauderdale, thoughtfully.
“So is yours, mother dear.”
“No—it’s not. It’s full of little lines. Touch it—you can feel them—just there. Besides—you can see them.”