Anne, getting ready for bed, on the evening of Christopher's arrival,
felt unaccountably tired. His presence had been, perhaps, a bit
over-stimulating. It was good to have him back. She scarcely dared admit
to herself how good. After dinner she and Ridgeley and Christopher had
walked down to the grove of birches. There had been a new moon, and she
and Ridgeley had sat on the stone bench with Christopher at their feet.
She had leaned her head against her husband's shoulder, and he had put
his arm about her in the dark and had drawn her to him. He was rarely
demonstrative, and his tenderness had to-night for some reason hurt her.
She had learned to do without it.
She had talked very little, but Christopher had talked a great deal. She
had been content to listen. He really told such wonderful things--he
gave her to-night the full story of her silver beads, and how they had
been filched from an ancient temple--and he had bought them from the
thief. "Until I saw you wear them, I always had a feeling that they
ought to go back to the temple--to the god who had perhaps worn them for
a thousand years. If I had known which god, I might have carried them
back. But the thief wouldn't tell me."
"It would have done no good to carry them back," Ridgeley had said, "and
they are nice for Anne." His big hand had patted his wife's shoulder.
"Oh," Christopher had been eager, "I want you to hear those temple bells
some day, Anne. Why won't you take her, Dunbar? Next winter--drop your
work, and we'll all go--"
"I've a fat chance of going."
"Haven't you made money enough?"
"It isn't money. You know that. But my patients would set up a howl--"
"Let 'em howl. You've got a life of your own to live, and so has Anne."