“Why?”
“It is said to impair the memory. You seem to have forgotten all about us.”
“I accept the rebuke,” he answered, meekly. “Now tell me all that I have been oblivious of.”
She gave him her little budget of news, aware that he would give no further information as to his own doings. She spoke of the waif she had rescued.
“You have no idea how strong and bonny she looks. I have been canvassing for votes for the St. Katherine schools. The election is next week. I think she’ll get in.”
“But I had an idea you were going to keep her,” said Hugh.
“So had I. I shall miss her dreadfully. It would be so nice to adopt a child. But Gerard thought this would be better for her—and he’s so wise, you know.”
The idea of her husband’s goodness and wisdom brought tenderness into her eyes, changing her expression to one of wonderful simplicity. Hugh made no reply, but leaned back and watched her across the compartment which they alone occupied. The central light, that fell full upon her, showed nothing, in her face, of the practical, capable woman of affairs, only the soft charm of girlhood, that lingered still in her eight and twenty years. Presently she bent forward.
“Why do you look at me like that?” she asked, smiling.
“I was dipping into the poem of your face, and reading my favourite bits,” he replied, half seriously.