"It's not for long," said McTaggart gently. He ran a hand through the girl's arm. "Won't it be jolly after a bit to have him in Rome, living with us?"
"Yes." Jill swallowed hard. "You think we shall work it?—I'm rather doubtful."
"I'm not," said McTaggart stoutly. "I know Stephen. He's 'no proud!' The economy's sure to appeal to him. And Aunt Elizabeth's sworn to help. She's a brick, that old lady! Oh, by the bye, I'm to give you this."
He handed his wife an envelope, directed to her and carefully sealed.
"She said you were not to lose it, Jill." Then he laughed suddenly.
"Guess what her last words to me were?"
"Can't." Jill was beginning to smile, a rather wan little attempt, half her mind still with Roddy.
"I thought she was going to reveal to me some awful secret in your past. She led me aside on the pier with an air of mystery and whispered—
"'I've put some galoshes in the Hold-all—a new pair. I know Jill. She'll be marching about in those thin shoes from sheer vanity—catching cold—and I'm sure you're not fit to nurse her. A pair of babies!' Here she snorted. 'You look after her, young man.' This was her parting benediction!"
Jill laughed. "Just like her! I wonder what she's written here."