That night when Sally returned from Kew, Traill had noticed her
depression.
"What's Miss Hallard been saying to you?" he asked. "Telling you that
you're leading a terrible life, I suppose."
"No, why should she? Do you think I am, Jack?"
"Me? I should hope not, since I'm the cause of it. Do you feel you're
doing anything very terrible? Here--put your arms round my
neck--kiss me--God bless your little heart--you couldn't do anything
terrible. Now, are we going to sit and mope, or shall we go out to
supper?"
That meant that they were going to supper, and in half an hour she
was as happy again as a child.
For the first of the three years they passed through an incessant
round of amusements, going abroad every few months, once bicycling
all through France from North to South and then returning by train,
spending a week in Paris. Their method of living was frugal, and
Sally's demands amounted practically to nothing. For the whole of
that year, Traill had sunned himself in the warm delight of her
simplicity. The years when he was alone had brought with them a
certain amount of cynicism, a definite trace of bitterness. But with
Sally, he forgot all that--threw from his shoulders the years that
solitude had added to his age and became the man of thirty-six who
still looks youth in the eyes without question.
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