"No man on earth could tell you that, my dear, but I hope—always granting that you will be wise—that you may count on, say, twenty years."
They both smiled. After all, what did it matter?
"And—what do you suggest I should do—as a beginning of the—twenty years?"
"Close this house, Doris, and start another kind of existence—somewhere else."
"Why, David—I must bring the girls out, you know. They must not be told—of this."
"They need be told only what you choose to have them know, but as to the bringing-out farce—that's rot! Those girls will get out by one door or another, never fear. You are to be kept in—that's the important thing at present."
"Dear old David!" Doris's eyes dimmed as she looked at the kind face bending over the hands lying limp, now, on her lap. She noticed that there was white on the temple where the dark hair had turned; the heavy shoulders were bent permanently. She longed to do something more for David during the next—twenty years!
"You must not give way, Doris. A change is good for us all." Martin noted the tears in the eyes holding his own, but he did not understand their source.
"I am afraid the girls will be so disappointed," was what Doris said.
"Pampered creatures! It will do them good. But Nancy will love it and Joan can kick the traces if she wants to—that will do her good." Martin leaned back and crossed his legs in the old boyish way.