toward the end had told her over and over of the games at school and the holidays at the old Endicott home, and had even described the old play-room to her, as if his mother had never ceased to love him and mend his broken toys. Did men always remember, then, at the end? Did it mean—but she threw it off again and told herself, "We're not so old as that! We're not really old!"
At dinner that night she would have talked of nothing but his health and her fears for his lonely summer, but he would have none of that.
"I do quite well, you shall see, chère mademoiselle; I greet you in ze autom' at ze—ze docke. You are surprise', you do not know me—I am so restored! Est-ce possible! ce pauv' Laroche! Comme il se porte bien—how he is well!"
His expressive pantomime, his laugh, his old kindly smile as he met her eyes, frankly, yet with that confidential regard that seemed to say more than his words,
