A sudden moisture came to Sue's eyes, and much of the old frankness as she surveyed him.
“Henry,” she said then, “you are wonderful, coming at me like this, as if you cared—”
“I do care—”
“I know. I feel it. Just when I thought friends were—well...” She did not finish this, but sat erect, pushed her teacup aside and gazed at him with something of the old alertness in the green-brown eyes. There was sudden color in her cheeks. “Henry, you've roused me—just when I thought no one could. I've got to think.... You go away. You don't mind, do you? Just let me be alone. I've felt lately as if I was losing—my mind, my will, my perceptions—something. And, Henry—wait!” For he had risen, with a blank face, and was looking for his hat.
“Wait—did Peter leave you his itinerary?”
The Worm felt in his pockets and produced it.
“He sent me one, but I tore it up.” She laughed a little, then colored with a nervous suddenness; and walked after him to the door. “You've always had the faculty of rousing me, Henry, and steadying me. To-day you've stirred me more than you could possibly know. I don't know what will come of it—I'm dreadfully; confused—but I can at least try to think it out.”
That was all—all but a few commonplace phrases at the doer.
“Oh,” said he, with a touch of awkwardness, “I meant to tell you that I've made a change myself.”
“You?” Again her eyes, recalled to him, ran over his new clothes.