"And—I say, kid. I go down on my bended knees every day and thank God I've got no kids of his—"
"I think it's a pity. You must be so cold and lonely," she said, seeing a resemblance between Mrs. King and Aunt Janet.
She had made the bed before she went down to cook the breakfast. Louis was reading the paper and smoking, looking very well. She hated to see him in bed now.
He ate his breakfast in silence, with the paper propped in front of him. She pushed the window wide and, perched on the window-sill with a cup of tea outside and a piece of toast in her hand, she decided on what she was going to say to him.
"Louis," she said at last, "I am a wretchedly dissatisfied sort of person, dear."
He looked at her enquiringly and smiled.
"Louis, can you get up to-day and come out with me?"
He hesitated for a moment. Then he sighed.
"My dear—I don't think it's safe," he said in a low voice.
"Really?"