“I am very glad,” Helen answered, simply.
“Yes, I suppose you are.” Armstrong spoke pointedly, looking at Helen with a curious expression on his face. “Yes, I suppose you are.”
Helen flushed. “I don’t mean it as you have taken it, Jack,” she replied, quietly. “It has been a hard strain on you, and I am glad to know that you can soon get a change. I think you need it.”
Armstrong still looked at Helen intently. “It has been a strain,” he admitted, at length—“a strain on all of us.” Then his face lighted up as of old. “Cerini says the book is a masterpiece, Helen—do you understand, a masterpiece. He says it is better than he believed it possible for me to do; in fact, the best work on the period which has ever been written. Can you wonder that I am happy?” He turned from Helen to Inez. “And I could never have accomplished it except for the help of our friend here, who has so unselfishly changed her plans at my request. You must thank her for me—for both of us.”
“Does it mean that your visit to Florence is about at an end, Jack?” asked Uncle Peabody.
“Oh, there is much to be done yet,” replied Armstrong. “The first draft is nearly finished, and the material has all been sifted through; but I must go over the manuscript once more at least, here in this atmosphere, before returning to Boston.”
“Even the Old South Church and Bunker Hill Monument will seem very modern when you get back home, won’t they?”
“Everything will seem modern,” Armstrong assented. “I hate to think of leaving Florence, but there is one thought which makes it easier. Miss Thayer will, of course, visit us in Boston next winter, and she and I will then have a chance to do some other work like this together.”
“Why, Mr. Armstrong!” cried Inez, aghast. “I should not think of that for a moment. Believe me, Helen, this is the first I have heard of it. It could not be, of course.”
“Why could it not be?” insisted Armstrong, stoutly.