A nurse looked in, dressed in the white uniform and pointed cap of the hospital. Amherst fancied that she smiled a little as she saw them.
“Miss Brent the doctor wants you to come right up and give the morphine.”
The door shut again as Justine rose to her feet. Amherst remained seated—he had made no motion to retain her hand as it slipped from him.
“I m coming,” she called out to the retreating nurse; then she turned slowly and saw her husband’s face.
“I must go,” she said in a low tone.
Her eyes met his for a moment; but he looked away again as he stood up and reached for his hat.
“Tomorrow, then———” he said, without attempting to detain her.
“Tomorrow?”
“You must come away from here—you must come home,” he repeated mechanically.
She made no answer, and he held his hand out and took hers. “Tomorrow,” he said, drawing her toward him; and their lips met again, but not in the same kiss.
XLIII
JUNE again at Hanaford and Cicely’s birthday.
The anniversary was to coincide, this year, with the opening of the old house at Hopewood, as a kind of
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