"Don't make me cry," she said. "It tears me to pieces to cry. And then, I'm such a sight!"
"Nonsense!" he returned brusquely. "You're not going to. What is there to cry about? 'Men have died,' you know, 'and worms have eaten them, but not for love.'"
"What's that from?" she asked, seeking relief in the turn. "Ibsen?"
"Not exactly," he smiled. "It was said as a reminder by a charming and rebellious Pat of her time named Rosalind."
"Oh, I know! 'As You Like It.' Aren't I clever! The Rosalind reminds me of something. Aunt Linda's here. Have you seen her?"
"No. Who is she?"
"My very pettest aunt. She's an old peach. I'll take you to her if she's broken away from the bridge game. But first——" She lifted pleading and hungry eyes to him.
"Well, Pat?"
"Our being so—so dam' good and proper doesn't have to begin until I go, does it?"
He swept her into his arms, held her close and long. "Oh, Pat! Little wonderful Pat," he breathed. "What am I ever to do without you?"