"Oh, Jack!" she exclaimed, and happy the man who hears his name called in
such a tone--even if it be only for once in the whole course of his
existence.
He pitched his suit-case down upon the grass and took the maid in his
arms.
What did anything matter; they both were lonely and both needed
comforting.
He kissed her not once but twenty times,--not twenty times but a hundred.
"It's abominable you're being here," he said at last.
"I am very, very tired," she confessed.
"And you'll go back to the city when I go?" he asked.
"I don't know," she said, doubtfully. "I don't know whether she'll let
me."
Jack laughed.
"To-morrow I will beard Aunt Mary in her den," he declared; "now let's go
in and--and--"
The hundred and first!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - TWO ARE COMPANY
To the large square room where he had slept (on and off) during a goodly
portion of his boyhood life, Jack went to repose from his journey, there
to meditate the situation which he had come to comfort, and to try and
devise a way to better its existing circumstances.
It was a pleasant room, one window looking down the driveway, and the
other leading forth to a square balcony that topped the little porch of
the side entrance. There were lambrequins of dark blue with fringe that
always caught in the shutters, and a bedroom suite of mahogany that had
come down from the original John Watkins's aunt, and had been polished by
her descendants so faithfully that its various surfaces shone like
mirrors.
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