The man now brought cups of hot bouillon which, Mrs. Craighill declared, lifted their luncheon out of the plane of commonplace teas into the realm of banquets.
“Will you have something to drink, sir?” asked the servant.
Wayne glanced quickly at Mrs. Craighill.
“You can have champagne, buttermilk—anything. The cellar is excellent. I stocked it myself.”
“No; we will have nothing,” she answered with decision, and when they had dismissed the man, Wayne looked at her and smiled as he stirred his tea.
“I haven’t tasted a drop since you came. Do you know why?”
“No; I really haven’t an idea,” she replied with an assumption of careless interest. She knew what he wished to say; she entertained no delusions as to his sincerity; but she wished him to say it. There was tenderness in his manner and tone as he bent toward her.
“I did it for you, Addie. It was because you came back into my life. I had been going a wicked gait; in another year I should have been all in. But the night father showed me your picture and I knew it was you he was going to marry, I made a resolution never to drink again. I have been doing pretty well, haven’t I?”
“It has been fine of you; I appreciate it; I thank you for it.”
“I realized perfectly why it was that you were coming—why you were going to marry my father. I had known that there must come a time when your relations with your mother would become intolerable. I knew that you had to escape from her. If you had to be sacrificed I was glad chance was sending you my way that I might make it all easier for you. Your plight—the thought of a girl like you being hawked about—was hideous. I ought to have seen that, that summer we first knew each other; but I punished myself and I hope you felt it too, when I thought it was your mother that I was revenging myself on. And now, Addie,” he concluded spaciously, “I want you to be happy.”