In spite of himself, Langshaw began to get a little curious as to
the tobacco jar or the fire shovel, or whatever should be his portion.
He not only felt resigned to not having the trout-rod, but a sort of
wonder also rose in him that he had been bewitched--even
momentarily--into thinking he could have it. What did it matter anyway?
"It's worth it, old girl, isn't it?" he said cryptically as he and
Clytie met once unexpectedly in the hall, and he put his arm round her.
"Yes!" answered his wife, her dark eyes lustrous. Sometimes she didn't
look much older than little Mary. "One thing, though, I must say: I do
hope, dear, that--the children have been thinking so much of our present
to you and saving up so for it--I do hope, Joe, that if you are pleased
you'll show it. So far as I'm concerned, it doesn't matter; but
sometimes--when, of course, I know how pleased you really are--you don't
show it at once to others. That's why I hope you'll show it to-morrow
if--"
"Great Scott! Clytie, let up on it! What do you want me to do--jump up
and down and make a fool of myself?" asked her husband scornfully.
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