"There's a train up at eight in the morning," she announced calmly. "You'll be called at six-thirty. Breakfast at seven. Bacon and eggs and popovers. Is that all right?"
"There's only one thing lacking," he cried, his heart leaping. They were standing quite close to each other at the head of the stairs.
"If our home isn't—"
"If you'll promise to come down to breakfast, I'll never get over the joy of this visit," he said.
"I always have breakfast with the children." He looked askance. "At seven o'clock," she vouchsafed.
"By Jove!" was all he could gasp in his delirium.
"That's father's door at the end of the hall. Come in there when you are ready. I'll be with him. Don't be long. Your room is here."
He watched her until she closed her father's door behind her. Then he went into the sweet little bedroom across the hall, sat down rather heavily upon the edge of a couch, pulled his collar away from his throat as if that act were necessary to let the blood back from his head, and murmured over and over again, in the haziest manner imaginable:
"Who would have thought it could come like this? Who would have dreamed it?"