As we were kissing good-bye she asked timidly:
"What about the rouge, dear? Shall I cease to use it?"
"Poor little girl! Oh no, I don't suppose it matters. I've got very old-fashioned ideas. Good-bye, darling."
"Good-bye, beloved."
I went away treading on sunshine, trembling with joy, thrilled with love for her, blessing her anew.
Yet still the rouge stuck in my crop as if it were the symbol of some insidious decadence.
CHAPTER XV
It was about two months later when I returned from a flying visit to Dawson.
"Lots of mail for you two," I cried, exultantly bursting into the cabin.