“Mamma has been nervous all this month about papa,” Roberta (known otherwise as Pierrette or Bobby) was saying as she and Billy slowly paced the veranda. “But now May is over and he hasn’t shown any disposition to run away. I suppose he’s really cured.” There was a tinge of regret in her last words.
“Yes,” Billy replied carelessly. “He hasn’t mentioned his old roving days lately. I think he’s even sensitive about having them referred to.”
“But even if he should want to go, mamma wouldn’t break her heart about it. She feels that it’s really something fine in him: his love of the out-of-doors, and adventures, and knowing all sorts and conditions of men. And he has really helped lots of people, just as he helped you. And he always had so much fun when we all played gypsy, or he went off alone and came back with no end of good stories. I’m just a little sorry——”
They paused, clasping hands and looking off at the starry canopy. Suddenly from the side of the house a man walked slowly, hesitatingly. He stopped, turned, glanced at the veranda, and then, sniffing the air, walked rapidly toward the gate, swinging a stick, his face lifted to the stars.
Bobby’s hand clasped Billy’s more tightly as they watched in silence.
“It’s papa; he’s taking to the road again!” she murmured.
“But he’ll come back; it won’t be for long this time. I haven’t the heart to stop him!”
“No,” she said softly, “it would be cruel to do that.”
The lamps at the gate shone upon Robert Tyringham as he paused and then, with a characteristic flourish of his stick, turned westward and strode away into the night.