“Yes,” he answered. “I shan’t be long, but there are some things I must see to.”
“Couldn’t I go with you, Alfred, in a cab?”
“No;” and his lips locked.
“Are the rooms in the Gray’s Inn Road?” she asked again.
“They are near there,” he said once more; he looked at her steadfastly, and something in his eyes told her that he did not mean to give her the address. For a few moments there was silence between them. He stood on the hearth-rug by the fire. She sat a few paces from him, seemingly lost in thought. Suddenly she looked up.
“Alfred, my darling,” she cried sadly, “you do love me, do you not? You seem so cold to me to-day, so reserved and different. I have taken this great step for you, and you have not said a tender word to me since we returned from the church, yet this is our wedding-day,” and she stopped.
“I am not well, and it’s so cold, and I am worried about money matters, Anne.”
“I will take care of you,” she said, and stood up beside him, “and nurse you, and make you strong; I will study your every wish. If I had millions of money, they should all be yours, my darling; I should like to spread out gold for your feet to walk on.”
“I believe you would,” he said, with something like gratitude in his voice, and he stooped and kissed her forehead.
Even this meagre sign of affection overcame her, she put her head thankfully down on his shoulder and let it rest there a minute from sheer weariness and longing. He put his arm round her and his face touched her head, but it was as a man caresses his mother. Still, for a moment the weary old heart found rest.