Mrs. Mortimer saw the joke,
too, but its amusement was bitter to her.
"I like it," she said gently. "Most of the men I know do it."
"Your husband doesn't," observed Miss Sinclair.
"Poor George gets down from town so tired."
She gave Harry the reply she had written (it was a refusal--she
could not have told why), but he seemed not to understand that he
was to go. Before he apprehended, she had to give him a
significant glance; she gave it in dread of Maudie's eyes. She
knew how sharp schoolgirls' eyes are in such things. Whether
Maudie saw it or not, Harry did; he sprang to his feet and said
good-night.
Maudie was not long after him. The conversation languished, and
there was nothing to keep her. With an honest yawn she took her
leave. Mrs. Mortimer accompanied her down the garden to the
gate. As she went, she became to her startled horror aware of a
third person in the garden. She got rid of Maudie as soon as she
could, and turned back to the house. Harry, emerging from
behind a tree, stood before her.
"I know what you're going to say," he said doggedly, "but I
couldn't help it. I was dying to see you again." She spread out
her hands as though to push him away. She was like a frightened
girl.
"Oh, you're mad!" she whispered. "You must go. Suppose anyone
should come. Suppose my husband----"
"I can't help it. I won't stay long."
"Harry, Harry, don't be cruel! You'll ruin me, Harry.
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