"You might--we are pretty lonely here, we old people--I should have said
you might come back--there's your old room, you know--eating its head off,
hey?"
Sanchia kissed him. "Darling--we'll see. We'll talk about it soon. But I
must go now--to my books. I'm working very hard, at my Italian. I've
forgotten--lots."
He had to let her go--but, manlike, he must relieve himself in a man's
way. He drew her into his study, bade her "see what she should see." He
went to his desk and sat to his cheque-book. He returned with the slip wet
in his hand. "There, my child, there. That will keep the wolf from the
door, I hope. For a day or two, you know." She read, "Miss Sanchia
Percival--two hundred pounds sterling." It brought the tears to her eyes
again. It was so exactly like him.
"You darling--how ridiculous of you--but how sweet!"
He glowed under her praises. "Plenty more where that came from, Sancie,"--
then piously added, "Thank God, of course."
Sanchia, in the hall, turned to her mother. "Good-bye, mother," she said,
and held her hand out. Her mother took it, drew her in, and kissed her
forehead. "Good-bye, my child"; she could not, for her life, be more
cordial than that.
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