"I shall be out of it. They will be married, and you will be in France, and I shall sell—toys—"
She tried to laugh, but it was a poor excuse. He glanced at her quickly. "Shall you miss me, Emily?"
Her hands went out in a little gesture of despair. "There you go, taking my tears to yourself."
He was a bit disconcerted. "Oh, I say—"
"But they are not for you. They are for my lost youth and romance, Bruce. My lost youth and romance."
Leaning back in his chair he studied her. Her eyes were dreamy—the rose-red was still in her cheeks. For the first time he realized the prettiness of Emily; it was as if in her plea for others she had brought to life something in herself which glowed and sparkled.
"Look here," he said. "I want you to write to me."
"I am a busy woman."
"But a letter now and then—"
"Well, now and then—"