No; there will be no trunk. I
shall go back in a few days."
The gate clashed to. A stout man in a blaze of white duck came up the
path, lifting his cork helmet slightly to air the top of his head. As he
approached it could be seen that his duck was of a modified whiteness, and
that his beard, even in that forcing weather, could not be less than a two
days' growth. He threw his entire weight on the steps one by one, as he
mounted them slowly. The curtains were parted for him from within.
"Well, Margaret?"
"Well, dear old man! How hot you look! _Why_ do you not carry an umbrella?"
"Because I haven't got you here to make me. What brought you back in such
weather? Where is your telegram?"
"I did not telegraph. There was no need. I simply had to speak to you at
once--about something that could not be written."
"Well, it's good to have a look at you again. But you are going straight
back, you know. Can't take any chances on such weather as this."
Mr. Thorne sank copiously into a piazza chair, and pulled forward another
for his wife.
She sat on the edge of it, smiling at him with wistful satisfaction. Her
profile had a delicate, bird-like slant.
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