Husband
going?"
Mrs. Arbuthnot, unused to anything but candour, looked troubled
at this question and began to murmur inarticulately, and the owner at
once concluded that she was a widow--a war one, of course, for other
widows were old--and that he had been a fool not to guess it.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, turning red right up to his fair hair.
"I didn't mean--h'm, h'm, h'm--"
He ran his eye over the receipt he had written. "Yes, I think
that's all right," he said, getting up and giving it to her. "Now," he
added, taking the six notes she held out and smiling, for Mrs.
Arbuthnot was agreeable to look at, "I'm richer, and you're happier.
I've got money, and you've got San Salvatore. I wonder got is best."
"I think you know," said Mrs. Arbuthnot with her sweet smile.
He laughed and opened the door for her. It was a pity the
interview was over. He would have liked to ask her to lunch with him.
She made him think of his mother, of his nurse, of all things kind and
comforting, besides having the attraction of not being his mother or
his nurse.
"I hope you'll like the old place," he said, holding her hand a
minute at the door. The very feel of her hand, even through its glove,
was reassuring; it was the sort of hand, he thought, that children
would like to hold in the dark.
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