She
had her back to him. He thought he had never seen
her look so lovely. She was wearing a light-blue
morning-gown, her arms bare to the elbows, and a
wide Leghorn hat--the morning costume of all others
he liked her best in.
"No--don't think I am," she answered lightly.
"Fact is I was getting pretty tired of you. How
long will you be gone?"
"Oh, I think till the end of the week--not
longer." He reached over the chair and was about
to play with the tiny curls that lay under the coil
of her hair, when he checked himself and straightened
up. One of those sudden restraints which
had so puzzled Lucy had seized him. She could
not see his face, but she knew from the tones
of his voice that the enthusiasm of the moment had
cooled.
Lucy shifted her chair, lifted her head, and looked
up into his eyes. She was always entrancing from
this point of view: the upturned eyelashes, round of
the cheeks, and the line of the throat and swelling
shoulders were like no other woman's he knew.
"I don't want you to go, Max," she said in the
same coaxing tone of voice that Ellen might have
used in begging for sugar-plums. "Just let the
mortgage and old Morton and everybody else go.
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