He looked through the window at the black sweep of the heath and the stars above it.
“I shall sit up awhile, dear, and do some work.”
“Work, traitor!”
He glanced up at her with a smile.
“I brought a ledger over with me. No time like the sweet and idle present. There are such things as bills, dear.”
Catherine brushed the commonplace aside with a woman’s adroitness.
“Well, an hour’s exile, and no more.”
“I promise that.”
“Good-night, till you come—”
She kissed him, glided away, and went up to her room, humming one of Schubert’s songs.