The evening was over at last, and they were going away. Tom had said
good night.
"You are to be in New York, at my uncle's, Clara tells me."
"It is true."
"I may see you there?"
For answer she put out her hand. He took it as he would have taken a
delicate flower, laid his other hand softly, yet closely, over it, and,
without any adieu spoken, went away.
"Tom always declared Willie was a little queer, and I'm sure I begin to
think so," said Clara, as she kissed her friend and departed to her
room.
CHAPTER V
"_A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer,
A little talking of outward things._"
JEAN INGELOW
Ah, the weeks that followed! People ate and drank and slept, lived and
loved and hated, were born and died,--the same world that it had been a
little while before, yet not the same to them,--never to seem quite the
same again. A little cloud had fallen between them and it, and changed
to their eyes all its proportions and hues.
They were incessantly together, riding, or driving, or walking, looking
at pictures, dancing at parties, listening to opera or play.
"It seems to me Will is going it at a pretty tremendous pace somewhere,"
said Mr. Surrey to his wife, one morning, after this had endured for a
space. "It would be well to look into it, and to know something of this
girl."
"You are right," she replied. "Yet I have such absolute faith in
Willie's fine taste and sense that I feel no anxiety.
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