“It’s still me?” Michael asked a little wistfully.
“Always you,” she said softly. “One big reason I like to go abroad is because it makes me so glad to get back to you.” She sat on the arm of his chair and patted his head affectionately.
“But look here,” said Michael with an affectation of reproof, “whenever I want a little trot around the country and suggest leaving, you begin—”
She put her hand over his mouth and stopped him.
“Oh, that’s very different. When we do separate I always want to be the one to leave, not to be left.”
“It is much easier to go than to stay,” he agreed, “and I’ve been pretty lonely these last six weeks.”
“But you’ve had a lot of business to attend to,” she reminded him.
“That’s finished two weeks ago.”
“And then you’ve had the insidious Lambart and all the Scotch you wanted.”
“’Tisn’t nearly as much fun to drink when you’re away,” he insisted. “It always takes the sport out of it not to be stopped.”