(At that moment Mr. Walkingshaw was opening his front door.)
For a minute they sat in silence, and then she tried gently to draw the hand away.
"Let me keep it for a little!" he pleaded. "I'm going away. I shan't hold it again for Heaven knows how long."
His voice was so caressing that she ceased to grudge him five small fingers.
(Mr. Walkingshaw had removed his muffler and was hanging up his coat.)
"Are you at all sorry I'm going?"
"Yes," murmured Jean, "Frank and I—we'll both miss you."
The artist murmured too, but very indistinctly. The idea he expressed thus inadequately was, "Hang Frank!" But she heard the next word too plainly for her self-possession.
"Jean!"
(Mr. Walkingshaw was now ascending his well-carpeted staircase.)