The only good effect of my crying, besides the delicious languor it left over me, was that it melted Julian also. I have known it to be a very convenient solvent when he hardened himself into a male tyrant. His face was sure to relax and his motherly arms to gather me in. Some men will run from tears, and very disagreeable men they are. Julian seems to like the soaking. It is tribute to him as a man, and certifies to his grip on my individuality. He is convinced I am very fond of him, and dependent on his gracious favor, when I creep to his knees to cry.
Julian wiped my tears and comforted me upon his shoulder, his face assuming its usual superior expression.
When I got my breath and knew that I could talk becomingly between little hiccoughs, I told him the message I had from T’férgore, and he saw at once how it would prevent the European trip.
He whistled a minute, and we studied each other’s eyes.
“Well,” said Julian, “I suppose we owe everything to the old fellow, and if he is really coming we’ll have to prepare for him.”
“Perhaps we better go out to the little farm,” I suggested.
“Yes, I think we better. We’ll have to economize, to gratify all his fastidious tastes.”
“I wish he’d sent word to you, instead of to me,” I burst out. “It’s your relation this time.”
“Yes, I wish he had,” said Julian, smiling.
“Are you glad or sorry, Julian?”