“Hosy,” she said, as I entered, “I—I hope you don't think I'm too ungrateful. I'm not. Really I'm not. And I care as much for you as if you was my own boy. I can't leave you; I sha'n't. If you say for us to—”
I interrupted.
“Hephzy,” I said, “I shan't say anything. I know perfectly well that you couldn't leave me any more than I could leave you. I have arranged with Matthews to set about house-hunting at once. As soon as rural England is ready for us, we shall be ready for it. After all, what difference does it make? I was ordered to get fresh experience. I might as well get it by becoming keeper of a sanitarium as any other way.”
Hephzy looked at me. She rose from her chair.
“Hosy,” she cried, “what—a sanitarium?”
“We'll keep it together,” I said, smiling. “You and I and Little Frank. And it is likely to be a wonderful establishment.”
Hephzy said—she said a great deal, principally concerning my generosity and goodness and kindness and self-sacrifice. I tried to shut off the flow, but it was not until I began to laugh that it ceased.
“Why!” cried Hephzy. “You're laughin'! What in the world? I don't see anything to laugh at.”
“Don't you? I do. Oh, dear me! I—I, the Bayport quahaug to—Ho! ho! Hephzy, let me laugh. If there is any fun in this perfectly devilish situation let me enjoy it while I can.”
And that is how and why I decided to become a country gentleman instead of a traveler. When I told Matthews of my intention he had been petrified with astonishment. I had written Campbell of that intention. I devoutly wished I might see his face when he read my letter.