"I think," he answered, "that I should like a change from Washington;" and as soon as he had spoken he detected the touch of acrid feeling in his words.
"I should fancy myself," she said, her soft look entirely undisturbed, "that it might be agreeable after one had been here some time."
He had always admired beyond expression that touch of half-forgetful, pensive calmness in her voice and eyes, but he did not enjoy it just now.
"It is a matter of temperament, I suppose," was his thought; "but, after all, we have been friends."
Neither could it be said that he enjoyed the pretty and picturesque stories of German life she told afterward. They were told so well that they brought very near the life he might expect to lead, and he was not exactly in the mood to care to stand face to face with it. But he controlled himself sufficiently to make an excellent audience, and never had been outwardly in better spirits than he was after the stories were told. He was cool and vivacious; he told a story or two himself; he was in good voice when he went to the piano and sang. They were all laughing when Agnes left the room to put on her wraps to return home.
When she was gone the laugh died down with odd suddenness.
"Larry," said Bertha, "do you really want to go?"
"No," he answered, turning sharply, "I don't want to go. I loathe and abhor the thought of it."
"You want," she said, "to stay here?"