Dicky had ended the letter suddenly, saying he was sleepy, but had more to say later. The two women talked low, because of another in the room. This other was not to be disturbed. They stood over him now. He would not have approved at all of their gayety and know-it-all manner, had he been awake. His lids were down, however; the black curving lashes reposed in their hollows; the world, which was the big horse he must some time ride, was away minding its own business.
“I’m glad to hear this much before I go——” Miss Claes stopped and took both of Pidge’s hands.
“Before you go—where?”
“This little slate of Harrow Street is all written over. It is to be rubbed out now, Pidge. My part is finished here—I don’t know how well, but it’s finished. I am leaving New York.”
“Why, that—that seems—insupportable!... Why, I thought anything could happen but that—to my New York!”
“Only you are to know, dear,” Miss Claes said moments afterward. “Yes, it is India——”
“To Nagar—you are to be with him—the Hills!”
“Don’t, Pidge. It isn’t for words——”
“Forgive me——”
“These are terrible days for India. It means work—work—tests for every one’s courage. Little Harrow Street is still and steady, compared.... But this is dear to me—the thought that I go ahead to make ready for you another place to come——”