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 with nothing in it at all. But it's nothing without you in it, Pussy."

"You didn't miss me for a long time," she said, with her cheek against his.

"Always," he said, "always, always, always."

"Oh no," she said seriously, "you know you couldn't have been lonely."

"Lonely—I was wretched!"

"Oh, hush!" she cried with a start, putting her hand over his lips.

"Anyway"—he kissed her fingers—"nobody is lonely now. Come into the house."

She hung back on his arm a little but did not again protest; they went in by a glass door into the kitchen passage. As they passed through the archway into the hall he put out his hand to sweep something aside; then smiled shamefacedly. It was funny how he always expected that portière. She had declared that a draught came through from the kitchen, and insisted on putting it up. She had filled the house with draperies, and Pussy had taken them down. When the portière was there he had always been