Annan met her in the station,—a very sober-faced young man, solemn and sad.
It was she who offered the serious kiss of parting; she who retained his hand, tender, reluctant, candidly concerned as to his health and welfare if left for a while entirely self-responsible.
Neither saw any humour in the situation.
“Please write me every evening, Barry,” she urged. “And if you don’t sleep well, take a glass of hot milk when you go to bed.”
“All right, but how about you?”
“Oh, I’ll let you hear from me,” she nodded absently; “—but I shall be rather anxious if you fail to write me every evening. You won’t neglect to do it, will you?”
Finally he began to think her solicitude was mildly funny.
“If I had a mother,” he said, “that’s about what she’d say to me. Who do you think is running this outfit, anyway, Eris?”
“You, darling.”
His masculine smile made this obvious. And the solemn directions he gave her about danger of catching cold in a country house, about changing shoes and stockings when she came indoors, and his warning concerning fried foods and sudden change of drinking water were specimens of psychological self-assertion which settled his real status.