"A whole month. These last two years have been years of exacting, constant work, and there's a prospect of the same continuing. I thought I'd got my second wind—and then I came down suddenly. The doctor said that if I wanted to do the paper justice—and I do—I'd have to give it an editor who could sleep. So he and Rose packed me off."
"Rose?"
"My wife—Rose Darragh."
He spoke as though she would know the name. Indeed, it seemed to have for her some association; but it wavered like a dream; she could not fix it. She seemed to feel how long she had been away from America—out of touch—not knowing things, events, trendings. "Nine years," she said again, uncertainly; "so much happens in nine years."
"Yes," he said. "Personal life changes rapidly to-day—with everything more flexible, with horizons growing wider—and the age follows and changes and changes—changes and mounts. We are in for a great century. I'm glad to be alive!"
"Yes, I am, too." Presently she looked at her watch. It was luncheon-time. Would he not take it with her father and herself? No; he would not do that to-day; but leaving the great tree and the garden they walked together to the house. At the gate in the wall she said, "Come to see me here to-morrow morning, if you will. I should like you to come and go as you please."
"Thank you," he said, then, with emphasis, "friend.... That is what, when I was nineteen and afterwards, I called you in my mind."
"It's a good word—'friend.' Let us use it still."