"My lack of conceit has always been my undoing; I am the humblest man alive. You are adorable," I said, "if that's the answer."
"It isn't the answer! If mere stars do this to you, what would you be in moonlight?"
As we stood facing each other I was aware of some new difference in her. Perhaps her short outing skirt of dark blue had changed her; and yet in our tramps through the woods and our excursions in the canoe she had worn the same or similar costumes. She hesitated a moment, leaning against the railing and tapping the floor with her boot; then she said gravely, half questioningly, as though to herself:
"He has gone away; you are quite sure that he has gone away?"
"Your father is probably in New York," I answered, surprised at the question. "I do not expect him back at once."
"If he should come back—" she began.
"He will undoubtedly return; there is no debating that."
"If he comes back there will be trouble, worse than anything that has happened. You can't understand what his return will mean to us—to me."
"You must not worry about that; you must trust me to take care of that when he comes. 'Sufficient unto the day' must be your watchword. I saw Gillespie to-night."
"Gillespie?" she repeated with unfeigned surprise.