"Yes," he answers, a little sadly, "no two people look at any thing in quite the same way, do they?—not even husband and wife."
"I suppose not," say I, still thinking of the steward.
"Do you know," he says, leaning his arms and his crossed hands on the table between us, and steadfastly regarding me, "that I never saw you look miserable before, never? I did not even know that you could!"
"I am not miserable," I answer, rather ashamed of myself, "that is far too strong a word! Of course I am a little disappointed." Then I mumble off into an indistinctness, whence the nouns "House—warming," "Bobby," "Gold Coast," crop out audibly.
"After all," he says, still regarding me, and speaking kindly, yet a little coldly too, "you need not look so woebegone. They say second thoughts are best, do not they? Well, I have been thinking second thoughts, and—I have altered my mind."
"You are going to stay at home?" cry I, at the top of my voice, jumping up in an ecstasy, and beginning to clap my hands.
"No," he says, gently, "not quite that, as I explained to you before, that is impossible: but—do not be downcast—something nearly as good. I am going to leave you at home!"
To leave me at home! My first feeling is one of irrepressible relief. No sea! no steward! no courtesying ship! no swaying waves after all! Then comes a quick and strong revulsion, shame, mortification, and pain.
"To—leave—me—at home!" I repeat slowly, hardly yet grasping the idea, "to—go—without—me!—by yourself?"
"By myself," he answers, gently. "You see, it is no new thing to me. I have been by myself for forty-seven years."