“Quits again, you see. Oh, dear, how dreadfully happy I am! And you know, as you are so fond of work now, you will have lots to do. All manner of things for poor people that I want to manage, and don’t know how—and all our own—I won’t say ‘my’ any more—tenants to look after—and—and—”
”‘That girl in black’ herself to take care of, and make as happy as all my love and my strength, and my life’s devotion can,” said Despard. “Maisie, my darling; God grant that you may never regret your generosity and goodness.”
“No, no,” she murmured, “yours are far greater, far, far greater.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then suddenly Despard put his hand into his pocket and held out something to Maisie.
“Look,” he said, “do you remember? I should have returned it to you, but I could not make up my mind to it. I have never parted with it night or day, all these years.”
It was the little silver vinaigrette.
This all happened several years ago, and, by what I can gather, there are few happier people than Despard Norreys and Lady Margaret, his wife.