RIVERS sat in the big wicker chair with his arms around his little wife. Her head, with its light curls, lay on his shoulder, and both of her hands held one of his large ones as she talked.
“You are sure you do not mind my coming in this way?”
“No. No, my Betsy, I do not mind.” He touched his lips to her forehead, and smoothed the folds of her pink gown with the strong, unnecessarily firm touch of a man. “But where are the boys?”
“I left them with Alice”—Alice was her sister—“for another week. I couldn’t bring them back in this hot weather.”
“Left them with Alice!”
“Yes, don’t talk about it.” She colored nervously and then went on. “I know they’re all right, but if I think about it too much I’ll get silly—as I did about you. But, of course, it’s really different with them, for they have someone to look after them, and Alice will telegraph every day.”
“How did you get silly about me?”
She clasped and unclasped his hand. “I don’t know. Yes, I do. It was worse than the time I thought of little Brook and the tiger. I kept imagining and imagining dreadful things. Last night I thought you were—dead. I saw you fallen on the floor.” Her voice dropped to a note of horror, and her eyes grew dark as they stared at him. “Where did you get that cut on your forehead? Were you ill last night? Did you have a fall?”