The outer door opened and Buck Stratton entered. Pausing for an instant on the threshold, he glanced eagerly about the room, his face falling a little as he walked over to where Mrs. Archer sat.
She looked up at him for a moment in silence, surveying with frank approval his long length, his wide chest and lean flanks, the clean-cut face which showed such few signs of fatigue or strain. Then her glance grew quizzical.
“You give yourself away too quickly,” she smiled. “Even an old woman scarcely feels complimented when a man looks downcast at the sight of her.”
“Rubbish!” retorted Buck. “You know it wasn’t that.” Bending swiftly, he put an arm about her shoulders and kissed her. “You brought it on 347 yourself,” he told her, grinning, as he straightened up. “You’ve no business to look so—pretty.”
The pink in Mrs. Archer’s cheeks deepened faintly. “Aren’t you rather lavish this morning?” she murmured teasingly. “Hadn’t you better save those for—” Suddenly her face grew serious. “I do understand, of course. She hasn’t come out yet, but she’s dressing. I made her eat her breakfast in bed.”
“Good business,” approved Buck. “How is she?”
“Very much better, physically. Her nerves are practically all right again; but of course she’s very much depressed.”
Stratton’s face clouded. “She still persists—”
Mrs. Archer nodded. “Oh, dear me, yes! That is, she thinks she does. But there’s no need to look as if all hope were lost. Indeed, I’m quite certain that a little pressure at the right moment—” She broke off, glancing at the bedroom door. “I’ve an idea it would be better for me to do a little missionary work first. Suppose you go now and come back later. Come back,” she finished briskly, “when you see my handkerchief lying here on the window-ledge.”
He nodded and was half way across the room when she called to him guardedly: