Only the train whistle could drown the farewells which they poured into her ear-trumpet, and when they could hover in her drawing-room no longer they stood outside the window as long as the window was there to stand outside of. And then they watched it until it was out of sight, and after that turned solemnly away. “By grab!” said Burnett, “I think she ought to leave us _all_ fortunes. I never was so completely done up in my life.” “My throat’s blistered,” said Clover feebly; “I’m going to stand on my head and gargle with salve until my throat’s healed.” “I shall never shine on the team again,” said Mitchell. “I shall hire out for bleacher work. He who has successfully conversed with Aunt Mary need not fear to attack a Wagner Opera single-handed.” Jack did not say anything. His heart was athirst for Mrs. Rosscott. She was back in her own library the next night, and he rushed thither as soon as his first day’s labor was over. She was prettier and her eyes were sweeter and brighter than ever as she rose to meet him and held out—first one hand, and then both. He took the one hand and then the two and the longing that possessed him was so overwhelming that only his acute consideration for all she was to him kept him from taking more yet. “And the week’s over,” she said, when she had dragged her fingers out of his and gone and nestled down upon the divan, among the pillows that rivaled each other in their attempts to get closer to her, “the week’s all over and our aunt is gone.” “Yes,” he said, rolling his favorite chair up near to her seat, “all is over and well over.” She smiled and he smiled too. “She must have enjoyed it,” she said thoughtfully. “Enjoyed it!” said Jack. “She won’t like Paradise in comparison.” “And you’ve been a good boy,” said Mrs. Rosscott, regarding him merrily. “You’ve played your part well.” He rose to his feet and put his hand to his temple. “I salute my general,” he said. “I was well trained in the maneuver.” “It’s odd,” said Mrs. Rosscott thoughtfully. “It was really so simple. We are only women after all, whether it is I—or Aunt Mary—or all the rest of the world. We do so crave the knowledge that someone cares for us—for our hours—for our pleasures. It isn’t the bonbons—it’s that someone troubled to buy the bonbons because he thought that they would please us.” “Doesn’t a man have the same feeling?” Jack asked. “It isn’t the tea we come for—it’s the knowledge that someone bothers to make it and sugar it and cream it.” “I wasn’t laughing,” said she. “I wasn’t laughing either,” said he. “But it’s true,” she went on, “and I think the solution of many unhappy puzzles lies there. Don’t forget if you ever have a wife to pay lots of attention to her.” “I always have paid lots of attention to her, haven’t I?” he demanded. Mrs. Rosscott shook her head.