“Oh!” said Lulu.  “Oh, no—­I mean—­”

“I heard about the eloping again this morning,” he said.  “That’s just what you did—­you brought her back.”

“You mustn’t tell that!  You won’t?  You won’t!”

“No.  ’Course not.”  He mulled it.  “You tell me this:  Do they know?  I mean about your going after her?”

“No.”

“You never told!”

“They don’t know she went.”

“That’s a funny thing,” he blurted out, “for you not to tell her folks—­I mean, right off.  Before last night....”

“You don’t know them.  Dwight’d never let up on that—­he’d joke her about it after a while.”

“But it seems—­”

“Ina’d talk about disgracing her.  They wouldn’t know what to do.  There’s no sense in telling them.  They aren’t a mother and father,” Lulu said.

Cornish was not accustomed to deal with so much reality.  But Lulu’s reality he could grasp.

“You’re a trump anyhow,” he affirmed.

“Oh, no,” said Lulu modestly.

Yes, she was.  He insisted upon it.

“By George,” he exclaimed, “you don’t find very many married women with as good sense as you’ve got.”

At this, just as he was agonising because he had seemed to refer to the truth that she was, after all, not married, at this Lulu laughed in some amusement, and said nothing.

“You’ve been a jewel in their home all right,” said Cornish.  “I bet they’ll miss you if you do go.”

“They’ll miss my cooking,” Lulu said without bitterness.

“They’ll miss more than that, I know.  I’ve often watched you there—­”

“You have?” It was not so much pleasure as passionate gratitude which lighted her eyes.

“You made the whole place,” said Cornish.

“You don’t mean just the cooking?”

“No, no.  I mean—­well, that first night when you played croquet.  I felt at home when you came out.”

That look of hers, rarely seen, which was no less than a look of loveliness, came now to Lulu’s face.  After a pause she said:  “I never had but one compliment before that wasn’t for my cooking.”  She seemed to feel that she must confess to that one.  “He told me I done my hair up nice.”  She added conscientiously:  “That was after I took notice how the ladies in Savannah, Georgia, done up theirs.”

“Well, well,” said Cornish only.

“Well,” said Lulu, “I must be going now.  I wanted to say good-bye to you—­and there’s one or two other places....”

“I hate to have you go,” said Cornish, and tried to add something.  “I hate to have you go,” was all that he could find to add.

Lulu rose.  “Oh, well,” was all that she could find.

They shook hands, Lulu laughing a little.  Cornish followed her to the door.  He had begun on “Look here, I wish ...” when Lulu said “good-bye,” and paused, wishing intensely to know what he would have said.  But all that he said was:  “Good-bye.  I wish you weren’t going.”