"Is it dead, then?" he asked, his voice very low.
She made a quaint gesture as of putting something from her.
"Yes, quite; and buried decently without any fuss. The blinds are up
again, and I don't want any condolences. I'm going out into the sun,
Jack. I'm going to live."
"And what about me?" said Babbacombe.
She turned in her quick way, and laid her hand upon his knee.
"Yes, I've been thinking about you. I am going back to London to-morrow,
and the first thing I shall do will be to find you a really good wife."
"Thank you," he said, smiling a little. "But you needn't go to London
for that."
"Oh, shucks!" said Cynthia, colouring deeply. "There's more than one
woman in the world, Jack."
"Not for me," he said quietly.
She was silent for a space. Then:
"And if that one woman is such a sublime fool, such an ungrateful little
beast, as not to be able to--to love you as you deserve to be loved?"
she suggested, a slight break in her voice.
He turned his head at that, and looked for an instant straight into her
eyes.
"She is still the one woman, dear," he said, very tenderly. "Always
remember that."
She shook her head in protest. Her lips were quivering too much for
speech.
Babbacombe drove slowly on in silence.
At last the hand upon his knee pressed slightly.
"You can have her if you like, Jack," Cynthia murmured. "She's going
mighty cheap.
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