Mary's glance suddenly deepened into tenderness, and when Archey left a few minutes later, he walked as one who trod the clouds, his head among the stars.
An hour passed, and Mary looked in Uncle Stanley's office. Burdon's desk was closed as though for the day.
"Where's Burdon?" she asked.
"He wasn't feeling very well," said Uncle Stanley after a long look at his son's desk, "—a sort of headache. I told him he had better go home."
And every morning for the rest of the week, when she saw Uncle Stanley, she gave him such an innocent look and said, "How's Burdon's head this morning? Any better?"
Uncle Stanley began to have the irritable feelings of an old mouse in the hands of a young kitten.
"That's the worst of having women around,"—he scowled to himself—"they are worse than—worse than—worse than—"
Searching for a simile, he thought of a flash of lightning, a steel hoop lying on its side, a hornet's nest—but none of these quite suited him. He made a helpless gesture.
"Hang 'em, you never know what they're up to next!" said he.