“Well,” said John Gwynne, “you’re going to draw a good deal bigger things than that.” John Gwynne could act quickly in matters of importance. “I’ve a million-dollar combine up for dicker this week—Fayerweather and Lodge and some of the fellows are in it with me—and it’s to do with an art collection of a regent prince who’s gone bankrupt and who’s got to sell to pay his debts. We’re thinking of buying; and I want your—why, Lucia, honey, what’s the matter? Sit down. Why——”
For Lucia was crying. First, softly, then tempestuously; as though her heart would break. John drew her down by him on the sofa, and patted her hand. “It’s all right, honey,” he said steadily, “it’s all right. I know—I took you by surprise, and you were tired to death, and—well, maybe you’d better come home, Lucy.”
“Oh, John—John,” she tried to control herself, “you don’t understand. It’s not that—it’s—John, don’t you see, I’ve tried all along to keep tab on things! I’ve put down so much on your side, and so much on mine; and then added them up. What you gave out I gave—and they always tallied. And at last—oh, don’t you see how dreary it got? How worthless? But I couldn’t stop doing it. I was like a wound-up clock. And so——”
“And so now you are going to begin a new column called our side,” put in John Gwynne, covering her hands. “And, Lucia! It’ll be so mixed up, and in such big figures, you can never count ’em—my dear! And, anyhow, we’ll be too busy. I’m going to send for Tommy—after you and I——” with swift tenderness, he kissed her.
While Gwynne, next day, was standing with Lucia in the room hung with the wistaria and pale rosebuds of ten years ago, Ambrose Fayerweather was saying to Mrs. Loring, “but I thought she came to make a long visit?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Loring defensively, “she stayed three days!”
X
ROGER—PLAINLY AN IDLER
“Eh bien, Marcel! and how does it go?” I asked.
“Oh, it goes, m’sieu—it goes, always. But——”
“Yes? ‘But’——?”