married him, and he was thirty. Jane doesn’t take after her mother; she was only nineteen when she was born—I mean, of course, when Jane was born. Will you hand me that crocheted shawl, please?”
“My dear girl, you’re not going to try to get that into that trunk, too? Something will break.”
“Not at all, my dear Clarence. Thank you. Will you send Norah up to me as you go down?”
It had not occurred to the colonel that he was going down, but he decided that he must have been, and departed, forgetting Norah utterly before he had accomplished half of the staircase.
He wandered out through the broad hall, reaching down a hat absently, and across the piazza. Then, half unconscious of direction, he crossed the neat suburban road and strolled up the gravel path of the cottage opposite. Mrs. Leroy was sitting in the bay-window, attaching
