“I’ll try and not have it happen again,” said the old man. “You know, I always do what you tell me.”
“Mostly always,” Corinne absently agreed. “I’m going to put this ten-spot here. Look, colonel, isn’t that the best move?”
The old man leaned forward, studying the contemplated move. Viola drew back, watching him. She had noticed his pallor when she came in. Now his face, settled into lines of gravity, appeared to have suddenly collapsed and withered into the gray hollows of decrepitude. Her heart contracted at the sight. She turned away, under the pretense of pulling off her gloves, and said:
“I made a plan when I was out this afternoon. I think you’ll like it.”
“Let’s hear it,” he said, turning back from the cards and watching her with a fond half-smile.
“Something I think you’ll like—oh, ever so much!” She patted and pinched the limp gloves into shape, not looking at him.
“Hit me with it,” he said. “Mrs. Seymour’s just given me that glass half full of brandy; you can’t expect me to guess after that.”
“That we should go back to San Francisco.”
Her news had more effect than even she had expected. The colonel sat up as if he had been struck, his lips quivering into a smile that he feared to indulge.
“Do you mean that, Viola? Do you really mean it?” he asked.