"Joanna—don't, don't ... don't take on, Jo."
He had not seen her cry before, and now she frightened him. Her shoulders heaved, and great panting sobs shook her broad back.
"My liddle Ellen ... my treasure, my duckie ... oh, why have you left us?... You could have come back to me if you didn't like it.... Oh, Ellen, where are you?... Come back ..."
Arthur stood motionless beside her, his frame rigid, his protuberant blue eyes staring through the window at the horizon. He longed to take Joanna in his arms, caress and comfort her, but he knew that he must not.
"Cheer up," he said at last in a husky voice, "maybe it ain't so bad as you think. Maybe I'll find her at home when I get back to Donkey Street."
"Not if she took her bag. Oh, whatsumever shall we do?—whatsumever shall we do?"
"We can but wait. If she don't come back, maybe she'll send me a letter."
"It queers me how you can speak so light of it."
"I speak light?"
"Yes, you don't seem to tumble to it."