She moved away with a slight little petulant gesture. When would he begin to speak?
Gerald wondered vaguely what had put his sweet-tempered Valentine out. He stirred the fire, and then stood with his back to it. She looked up at him, his face was very grave, very calm. Her own Gerald—he had a nice face. Surely there was nothing bad behind that face. Why was he silent? Why didn't he begin to tell his story? Well she would—she would—help him a little.
She cleared her throat, she essayed twice to find her voice. When it came out at last it was small and timorous.
"Was it—was it business kept you from coming with me to-night, Gerry?"
"Business? Yes, my darling, certainly."
Her heart went down with a great bound. But she would give him another chance.
"Was it—was it business connected with the office?"
"You speak in quite a queer voice, Valentine. In a measure it was business connected with the office—in a measure it was not. What is it, Valentine? What is it, my dear?"
She had risen from her seat, put her arms round his neck, and laid her soft young head on his shoulder.
"Tell me the business, Gerry, Tell your own Val."