She made a little mouth at him, and when he had gone she came and stood by her father’s chair. He looked up.
“Where are you off to?” he asked.
“There’s the matinee party first; and then Helen’s tea—it’s her day—and then Harold is going to take me for a spin, if we get out in time.... Good-by, dear things! I’ll see you at dinner.”
She bent and kissed them, and all the elusive perfume and shining color and the little flitting ends of ribbon fluttered with her from the room.
Richard More smiled across at his wife. “Enter Hamlet!” he said.
“Yes—It’s all decided!” she added softly.
He put down his cup.
“When?”
“Ages ago—in heaven, I suppose.” She smiled a little wistfully.
He looked relieved. “Oh—that kind of deciding!”