“Good-bye, Wynne.”
It was surprising when he kissed her she should have said,
“I think I am going to cry.”
He answered quickly,
“I shouldn’t—really I shouldn’t.”
Crying is so infectious.
“Perhaps I needn’t—but I could—I—I’m not sure I shan’t have to.”
“It’s quite all right,” said Wynne. He kissed her again and hurried down the steps.
The wind blowing through the broken window slammed the front door noisily. It occurred to Mrs. Rendall that the curtains might knock over the palm pedestal. Following the direction of her thoughts she moved to the dining-room to take steps. Her husband had said Wynne would return—“would crawl back on hands and knees”—and suppose he did not return? Well, then he wouldn’t.
Hers was the kind of concentration that attaches more importance to airing a person’s sheets than to the person himself. Crying was of little service, and the impulse had lessened with the peril of the palm pedestal to be considered.