"I—I believe you, and—I'll say good-by to you now, if you like," she says, laughing, and awkwardly raising her face to his.
As his mustache lightly brushes her cheek, she whispers eagerly—
"I'm sorry you're going, Tom—I'm awfully sorry. It—it would take very little to make me cry. How horrid of you to laugh like that! I shall miss you, I know, every day. Oh, can't you believe me—can't you believe me a little sometimes?"
"Twelve buttons, eau-de-Nil, six-and-a-quarter!" "Turkish delight, pink and sticky, chocolate-cream!" are the last words borne on the breeze as Armstrong drives down the avenue.
Turning suddenly to nod in acquiescence, with a throb of joy he sees a handkerchief applied to his wife's eyes.
"Could she have known—have guessed I should look round?" he thinks, in happy doubt. "In any case she might have been ready for the emergency. Bah! I believe her eyes are as dry and as bright as her precious sister's this minute. I wish—I wish I had given in about that wretched commission, though. Confound that boy! He's a desperate nuisance. Suppose I turn back and do so now? But no; if I did, her life wouldn't be worth living with him in the house. It will be time enough when I come back. I won't be more than a week away, if I can help it."
When the dog-cart has disappeared, Addie faces her brother.