"No." He inclined his head suggestively toward the house, and she understood.
"The little brute," murmured Francesca. "Richard, believe me, I am ashamed."
"Don't bother," he answered, kindly. "The boy mustn't know. You always plan everything for me—where shall I live now?"
She leaned forward, her blue eyes shining. "Oh, Richard," she breathed, "if you only would—if you could—come to Rose and me! We'd be so glad!"
There was no mistaking her sincerity, and the Colonel's fine old face illumined with pleasure. Merely to be wanted, anywhere, brings a certain satisfaction.
"I'll come," he returned, promptly. "How good you are! How good you've always been! I often wonder what I should ever have done without you."
He turned away and, lightly as a passing cloud, a shadow crossed his face. Madame saw how hard it would be to part from his son, and, only in lesser degree, his old home.
"Richard," she said, "a ship was sinking once in a fog, miles out of its course. The captain ordered the band to play and all the officers put on their dress uniforms. Another ship, also drifting, signalled in answer to the music and all were saved."
The Colonel rose and offered his hand in farewell. "Thank you, Francesca," he answered, deeply moved. "I put on my white gloves the day you came to tell me. I thank you now for the signal—and for saving me."
She watched him as he went down the road, tall, erect, and soldierly, in spite of his three-score and ten. "Three of us," she said to herself, "all in white gloves." The metaphor appealed to her strongly.