"Oh, I've always had seasons of meaning what I say."
"Indeed! But how is one to know when it is the season for truth?"
He spoke carelessly, as if he had no interest in the reply, whatever it should be. He puffed out a cloud of smoke and watched it float away.
Prudence drew her light mantle closely about her. She would not press her hands together beneath it, though she was tempted to do so.
She had expected an explanation, storm, tears, renewed tenderness. Surely he could not be tired of her so soon.
She did not answer his question, but apparently he did not notice this.
"Rodney, let us go away," she said, earnestly. "I hoped Mr. Meramble would go, but, since he stays, I can't endure my anxiety about you. I can't—I can't!"
Her voice grew unsteady. She looked at her husband entreatingly; tears gathered in her eyes.
"I am sorry to have you suffer from anxiety on my account," he responded, courteously; "but I think we will remain here. Augustine is a small place, I know, but it will hold Mr. Meramble and me."
"Please go!"