"The new house!" repeated the mother, biting her lips. "How the word hurts! Patty, why could they not come here? We'll be so lonely. Yet, it is the law of Heaven that a man and his wife must live by and for themselves."
Warrington walked home, lightened in spirit. He swung his cane, gave Jove a dozen love-taps and whistled operatic airs. What a charming young creature it was, to be sure! The brain of a woman and the heart of a child. And he had forgotten all about her. Now, of course, his recollection became clear. He remembered a mite of a girl in short frocks, wonder-eyes, and candy-smudged lips. How they grew, these youngsters!
He went into the house, still whistling. Jove ran out into the kitchen to see if by some possible miracle there was another piece of steak in his grub-pan. A dog's eyes are always close to his stomach. Warrington, finding that everybody had gone to bed, turned out the lights and went up stairs. He knocked on the door of his aunt's bedroom.
"Is that you, Richard?"
"Yes. May I come in?"
"Certainly."
He entered quietly. The moonlight, pouring in through the window, lay blue-white on the counterpane and the beloved old face.
"What is it?" she asked.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and patted her hands.
"Aunty, old lady, I'm through thinking. I'm going to come home just as soon as I can fix up things in New York."