“Good-night,” he responded, “before you get truthfuller.”
“Take care of him to-night, Mr. Matthew. He is irresponsible. Don’t go by the cliff route.”
“Not I. Good-night, Miss Regan. Good-night, Mrs. Wyndwood.” And that dear secret pressure thrilled his palm again.
In a few moments the two cousins were marching with measured step along the winding road. Herbert had lit a cigar, but Matthew was busy enough chewing the cud of his memories.
“Olive was rather strange to-night,” said Herbert, breaking the silence of the cliff-tops.
“Not more than usual, surely?” answered Matthew.
“That’s your conventionality and your ignorance of women. I never found her strange except to-night with her nonsense about the pain of the world.”
“She’s talked to me like that before several times; she thinks people with souls can’t be happy. I suppose it’s Mrs. Wyndwood’s influence over her natural flippancy.”
“Ah, perhaps so. But why so formal, Matt? You have my permission to call her Eleanor.”
“Thank you,” said Matthew, with a forced smile.