His mind flew back to Hilda
as she had bent down to him the night before, that he might unfasten
the necklace. He thought of the evil that her eyes saw in him, and in
the rest of the world. He thought of Jean, and of her white young
dreams.
"No," he said, as if to himself, "not that--"
She laid her hand on his arm, "Go by yourself--there's a big work over
there, and you can do it best--alone."
He looked down at her, smiling a little, but smiling sadly. "If Jean's
mother had lived I should not have been such a weathercock. Will you
write to me--promise me that you will write."
"Of course," cheerfully. "Oh, by the way, Julia tells me that dinner
will be at three, and that two soldier boys are coming. I rather think
I shall like that."
He ran his fingers through his crinkled hair. "What a lot you get out
of life, Emily."
"What makes you say that?"
"Little things count so much with you. You are like Jean. She is in
seventh Heaven over a snowstorm--or a chocolate soda. It's the youth
in her--and it's the youth, too, in you--"
She liked that, and flushed a little. "Perhaps it is because there
have been so few big things, Bruce, that the little ones look big.
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