“Oh—I do—more than I can tell you. I never expected to have one, though I have longed for it all my life.” She smiled, dangling the purse delightedly from its gold chain. “I only wish I had more to put in it,” she concluded thoughtlessly.
“So do I—Edith—so do I.” His tone betrayed the intensity of his feelings. “I wish I could do more for you—but I haven’t the right—I haven’t the right.” His voice trailed off helplessly. “I only wish I had.”
She said nothing to this. It was perilous ground and they both knew it. “How is Donald?” he asked suddenly.
“Oh, he’s very well. Busy as ever. Won’t you come in and see us this evening?”
“No—not this evening. I have a man with me from Denver that I must be with. He is going on to Boston at midnight. One of our directors,” he added by way of explanation. “But we must take a ride in the machine to-morrow. I suppose it will be quite rusty for want of use.”
“I suppose so. I’ve missed our trips.”
He looked at her closely. “Yes, I can see that,” he said, “you do not look so well—you are pale and tired. What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Oh, nothing much. Sewing, mostly.” She did not tell him that her principal occupation had been waiting for him to return.
“You need the fresh air. Suppose we take a run down to Garden City and have luncheon there. I’ll look in and see Donald in the morning and say hello. Does he know I am back?”
“No—I don’t think so. I didn’t mention it.”