He saw her when she reached the lower landing, but for just a fraction
of a second his gaze left her and went back to the letter he held in his
hand, as if to satisfy himself it was of no importance before he tossed
it away. Then he came to meet her.

"Oh!" he said. "I thought you were going to be off somewhere with
Frederica this afternoon. It's been a great day. I hope you haven't
spent the whole of it indoors. You're looking great, anyway. Come here
and give me a kiss."

Because she had hesitated, a little perplexed. Did he mean not to tell
her--to "spare" her, as he'd have said? The kiss she gave had a
different quality from those that ordinarily constituted her greetings,
and the arms that went round his neck, didn't give him their customary
hug. But they stayed there.

"You poor dear old boy!" she said. And then, "Don't you care, Roddy!"

He returned the caress with interest, before he seemed to realize the
different significance of it. Then he pushed her away by the shoulders
and held her where he could look into her face.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Don't care about what?"

It didn't seem like bravado--like an acted out pretense, and yet of
course it must be.

"Don't," she said. "Because I know. I've known all day. I read it in the
paper this morning."