"Oh, I'm not ashamed of them," she said through her grotesque little swallows and smiles. "They're only drops of water life squeezes out of you when you get too full—of feelings."
As he searched for comforting phrases Grover knew once again what ill-fitting garments words can be for the intricate emotions they foolishly attempt to clothe, and he quenched back the five-syllable things that rose to his lips, and stroked Rhoda's hand instead.
At the Gare St. Lazare next morning he found her a little pallid, but smiling. Standing with the Pearns amid a heap of supremely respectable luggage, Rhoda caught sight of him and came forward leading a young poodle.
"Look what Morty gave me!" she cried, proudly exhibiting the bewildered puppy. "I've always wanted a French poodle, and this is him!"
"Wait till he strikes Aldergrove. God help him when the airedales and chesapeakes sniff him and his French ways."
"They'll sniff you and your French ways too, if you're not careful. You'd better come back before they forget you."
"Oh!" he laughed, to conceal the depth of his feeling, "So long as you don't forget!"
"Well," said Rhoda, and the gates were opening and it would soon be time to say good-bye, "It's awful hard to remember somebody who never writes to you."
He promised to do better, and turned away from
