“Only for a few weeks,” he repeated. “I thought perhaps, if you wouldn't mind my writing to you, now and then—I write a rotten hand, you know. Most medical men do.”
“I should like it very much,” she said, primly.
She felt suddenly very lonely, as though he had already gone, and slightly resentful, not at him but at the way things happened. And then, too, everyone knew that once a Westerner always a Westerner. The West always called its children. Not that she put it that way. But she had a sort of vision, gained from the moving pictures, of a country of wide spaces and tall mountains, where men wore quaint clothing and the women rode wild horses and had the dash she knew she lacked. She was stirred by vague jealousy.
“You may never come back,” she said, casually. “After all, you were born there, and we must seem very quiet to you.”
“Quiet!” he exclaimed. “You are heavenly restful and comforting. You—” he checked himself and got up. “Then I'm to write, and you are to make out as much of my scrawl as you can and answer. Is that right?”
“I'll write you all the town gossip.”
“If you do—!” he threatened her. “You're to write me what you're doing, and all about yourself. Remember, I'll be counting on you.”
And, if their voices were light, there was in both of them the sense of a pact made, of a bond that was to hold them, like clasped hands, against their coming separation. It was rather anti-climacteric after that to have him acknowledge that he didn't know exactly when he could get away!
She went with him to the door and stood there, her soft hair blowing, as he got into the car. When he looked back, as he turned the corner, she was still there. He felt very happy affable, and he picked up an elderly village woman with her and went considerably out of his way to take her home.
He got back to the office at half past six to find a red-eyed Minnie in the hall.