“Going backwards—dying fast,” he said shortly.
“Oh!”
“Don’t be a little goose,” he cried, catching her in his arms as she reeled. “We all are; especially people over fifty. Bonny little nurse. You’ve done wonders. Good night, my dear; God bless you!”
She returned his loving fatherly kiss, given hastily, as if he were ashamed of his weakness, and then he strode out into the dark night.
“Poor Uncle Luke!” she said softly. “I was right. He must have had some shock to change his life like this. Good night, dear Mr Vine. My dearest love to Louy.”
“Good night, my darling,” he whispered huskily, and the next minute he was walking slowly away beside his brother in the direction of the turning up to the granite house.
“Good night, Luke,” said George Vine. “It is of no use to say come up.”
“Yes, it is,” said Uncle Luke snappishly. “I want to see Louy, and have a decent cup of tea.”
“I am very glad,” said his brother warmly. “Hah! that’s right. Come more often, Luke. We are getting old men now, and it’s pleasant to talk of the days when we were boys.”
“And be driven from the place by Madge with her pounce-box and her civet-cat airs. You kick her out, and I’ll come often.”