"Perhaps not, father."
Valentine was strangely subdued and quiet.
"I suppose it would be selfish to bring you," she said; "and we shall be back in six months."
"True," said Mr. Paget in a thoughtful voice; "and even for my daughter's sake my business must not go absolutely to the dogs. Well, child, a wilful woman—you know the proverb—a wilful woman must have her way. I own I'm disappointed. I looked forward to six months all alone with you. Six months with my own child—a last six months, for of course I always guessed that when Wyndham came back you'd give yourself up to him body and soul. Oh, no, my dear, I'm not going to disappoint you. A wife fretting and mourning for her husband is the last person I should consider a desirable companion. Run upstairs now and get your maid to put your things together. I shall take you down to Southampton by an early train in the morning, and in the meantime, if you'll excuse me. Valentine, I'll go out and send a telegram to your husband."
"To tell him that I'm coming?"
"Yes, are you not pleased?"
"No, don't do that. I will meet him on board the boat. I know exactly what the scene will be. He'll be looking—no. I shan't say how he'll be looking—but I'll steal up behind him, and slip my hand through his arm, and then—and then! Father, kiss me. I love you for making me so happy."
Mr. Paget pressed his lips to his daughter's forehead. For a brief moment his eyes looked into hers. She remembered by-and-bye their queer expression. Just now, however, she was too overwrought and excited to have room for any ideas except the one supreme longing and passion which was drawing her to her husband.
"Shall we have dinner?" said Mr. Paget after another pause.
Valentine laughed rather wildly.