as another. And I have memory too; if I can't look forward I can look back, and Wattie will be growing older every year, you know."
"Good Heavens!" he bursts out, "and that is the life you promise yourself?"
Here he breaks off, and indistinct mutterings follow, that the hay does not faithfully transmit.
"If you loved him as I do———" I begin, but a succession of violent sneezes completes the sentence.
A rather loud mutter from George seems to announce the fact that he "can't understand" something.
Presently—"Nell!"
"Yes."
"You and I never talk about Paul Vasher."
"No."
"But I want to talk to you about him now—may I?"
I do not answer for a moment, it is like stabbing a fresh wound to speak of him to any one who knows; but George was so good to me in that terrible time years ago . . so good.
"Yes, you may—only say it as quickly as you can, George."
"Then, Nell, can you tell me why he ever came back?"
"Surely he had a right to come if he chose?"
"I don't think he ought to have done it."
"If I do not mind it I think you need not," I say, proudly; a man may be permitted to manage his own affairs, may he not?"
Having made this speech, I instantly repent me of it, as is so often the way with us foolish women. If only we could learn to think first and speak after! . . .
"I did not mean that, George. I know you only say it for my good . . . but why should he not come back?"
