“Always,” he repeated cheerfully, “if you want me.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want you. I wrote you I was—happy.”
“Yes. You wrote it too often—and too hard.” He was smiling at her. But the lamps were misty. “Did you think I would n’t see?”
“Oh, dear—oh, dear—dear, dear!” It was a little wail of reproach at his foolishness—and hers. “And you were doing so well!”
“I can do better here. What’s burning!” He sniffed a little.
She glanced anxiously toward the kitchen. “Your father put some crusts in the oven to brown. It can’t he—”
“It can’t be anything else,” said John.
When he came back he told her of the great Dr. Blake.
They sat in silence while the room drew dark about them.
Now and then she reached out and touched his coat softly.