"Yes, probably, I should think. I heard from him this morning."
"And is he still away?"
"Yes; he asked if we had made any plans for the autumn."
She noticed the little pronoun, and her heart warmed; she knew that Feathers at least—with all his contempt for women and marriage— would not leave her out of a scheme of things that concerned Chris.
She looked at her husband, and her throat ached with tears, which she had kept pent up in her heart for so long now.
She was sure that Chris could always tell when she had been crying, and she was sure that it made him a little colder to her, a little less considerate.
She loved him so much! Even the little line between his brows, which was the result of his habit of frowning, was beautiful to her; she still thought him the handsomest man in the world.
She would have loved to go to St. Andrews with him; she knew Chris had been before for golf many times, and the very name conjured up visions of his old tweed coat and the thick low-heeled shoes he 118 always wore when he played, and she wished with all her heart that she had the courage to ask him to take her.
She had never been to Scotland, but the very mention of it seemed to speak of wide stretches of moorland and purple heather and the cool fresh mountain air.
She moved restlessly, and Chris looked up.