“Perhaps not on the day of my coming, but afterwards, I wish you would.”
She flashed a glance at him, the lightning reconnoitre of woman ever on the defensive. But the sight of his strong, frank face and kind eyes reassured her. She was silent for a moment, dreaming a vivid day-dream. She was taking him at his word, crying with her face on his shoulder and his arm around her. It was infinite comfort. But she quickly roused herself.
“Don't you know your Burton? A kind man once pointed it out to me—'As much pity is to be taken of a woman weeping, as of a goose going barefoot.' It was the same that told me a woman cried to hide her feelings.”
“That kind of epigram can be made like match-boxes at twopence farthing a gross,” said Raine, impatiently. “You have only to dress up an old adage with a mask of spite.”
“You haven't changed,” she said with a smile. “You are just the same as when you left.”
“More so,” he said, enigmatically. “Much more so. Then I thought it would do you good to cry. Now I wish you would. I suppose it seems odd I should say this to you. You must forgive me.”
“But why should I cry when I have no trouble?” she asked, disregarding his apology. “Besides, I don't go about bewailing my lot in life. Do you think I am unhappy?”
“Yes,” he replied, bluntly, “I do. I'll tell you what made me first think so. It was at the theatre at Christmas, when we saw 'Denise.' I was watching your face in repose.”
“It is a painful play,” she said, quietly, but her lip quivered a little, and a faint flush came into her cheek. “Besides, I was very happy that evening.”
He was sitting sideways on the bench, watching her with some earnestness. She was drawing scrawls on the gravel with the point of her parasol. Both started when they heard a harsh voice addressing them.