"Nothing," she echoes absently.
"Nothing but a contingency which is not likely to occur, and which therefore I need not discuss with you. The question which now must occupy us is how to make our future lives as bearable as we can in the circumstances. If you wish it, we can manage to live apart without much—"
"No no," she breaks in vehemently, "not that—not that! If you mean that I am to live at Nutsgrove without you, I will consent to no such arrangement. I will never return there without you; you can not move me in that."
"I do not wish to do so. The plan I would propose is that you and I return there together, as we had originally intended, and, for a couple of years at least, keep up before the world in general, and your brothers and sisters in particular"—here he winces for the first time—"the semblance, the form of union. Do you feel equal to such an undertaking? Would it be too much for you?"
"No," she answers, almost cheerfully; "it would not. I could do my part easily."
"Yes," he says, with a melancholy smile, "I suppose you could. You—you are a capital actress, Addie."
She flushes quickly.
"Not as good as you think—oh, Tom, not as good—"
But he goes on, heedless of the interruption—
"The task will not be so difficult as it may appear to you now. Life at Nutsgrove will be very different from what it has been here. I, of course, shall be away at my business all day, and shall have many interests to occupy me which will not touch your life. You will have the boys and the girls to look after, your household affairs, and, I suppose, social engagements which will fill your days pleasantly, I hope. Then it is decided we return together? You have no other plan you would like better to suggest?"