“It was a dreadful evening until you came,” she answered.
They were conscious that several hours lay before them. It was only half-past eight o’clock. And on both of them, afraid to begin to talk, hung those two hours for which they were so hungry and yet which were so oppressive. They sat down beside each other on the long davenport and talked of the children—anecdote after anecdote—but stories of them led to plans, and as plans began to be suggested in their minds they became wary again. Dick drew his wife’s head down against him finally, and for a long time they rested so. Odd, that the mere contact could give them such security. Farther and farther drifted their thoughts from discussion and analysis; back to memories of each other.
In the morning, while they were at breakfast with the children, the telephone rang.
“It’s father,” said Cecily, returning from answering it, “wanting to wish me a Merry Christmas. He was so upset because he couldn’t get here for the tree last night. He’s coming to get us for dinner. We’re dining with him. Della and Walter are going out. Will you come too, Dick?” The last a little hesitantly for, after all, Dick had not declared his plans.
“Did you tell him I was here?” countered Dick.
She flushed. “I didn’t like to tell over the telephone.”
Dick looked at her gravely. She realized as his eyes met hers that he looked older—and harder.
“I’ll tell grandfather for a surprise,” said Dorothea complacently.
They both winced. “We must talk things over this morning.”
“But it’s Christmas day,” protested Cecily.