"I'm afraid," he interrupted quietly, "you will have to concede so much to me—and sentiment." . . .
In the morning Aunt Clara left.
"This is what comes," was her benediction, "of marrying before you're ready and living beyond your means. I hope it will be a lesson to you never to do it again."
David was too tired to smile.
The rest of that week was too full for much thinking. The office was to be cleaned out. Trunks were to be packed, china and silver and bric-à-brac to be wrapped and boxed for storage, a thousand little preparations for moving when a new tenant for the apartment should have been found. David was grateful for that. He did not want time to think. Especially he did not want time to feel.
On Sunday morning he took Shirley and Davy Junior to the train. Not once did he let the baby out of his arms. At the very last a doubt seemed to disturb Shirley.
"David—" They were sitting in the station waiting-room then. "David, it's dear of you to let me go like this."
"It's better than moping around here."
"You don't think I'm selfish in wanting to go, do you?"
He shook his head and kept his eyes on the child's face.