"Very well, but you brought it on yourself. And now please go away, I've got to finish this and get back—"
He went reluctantly, and returned to say, "You'll come over again before I sail, and straighten things out for me?"
"Of course."
"You don't act as if you cared whether I went or not."
"I care, of course. But don't expect me to cry. I am not the crying kind." The little room was full of sunlight. She was very pink and white and self-possessed. She smiled straight up into his face. "What good would it do me to cry?"
After she had left him he was restless. She had been for so long a part of his life, a very necessary and pleasant part of it. She never touched his depths or rose to his heights. She seemed to beckon, yet not to care when he came.
He spoke of her that night to Emily. "Hilda was here to-day and she reminded me that people might think that my daughter is marrying Derry Drake for his money."
"She would look at it like that."
"When Hilda talks to me"—he was rumpling his hair—"I have a feeling that all the people in the world are unlovely—"
"There are plenty of unlovely people," said Emily, "but why should we worry with what they think?"