Something in her tone made him look at her steadily.
"You mean——?" he said.
"I wish I knew what you wanted," she said suddenly. "Are you keen to go back, Tom? You did like it all, you know—Melbourne, and races, and dinners, and golf, and theatres, and all the old life. You never would say you missed it, but I knew you did."
"I did: for a month," he said. "Then it just faded. I would have gone on missing it, I think, if you hadn't been so content. I don't know how you managed it. But it used to make a fellow ashamed of himself for feeling blue, with your happy face always about ... and to hear you singing."
She drew a long breath.
"Then—don't you want to go back? Ah, tell me, Tom!"
Tom Macleod laughed.
"I'll go back to-morrow, if you like," he said. "But otherwise—well, I think there are plenty of people in Melbourne without me."
"Oh, I'm so glad!" she cried. "Tom, I don't want to go back!"
"Are you certain?" he asked. "It's a hard life for you, my girl."