"My dear fellow!" March protested.
"I'd rather cut off my right hand!" Kenby pursued, excitedly, and then he
said, with a humorous drop: "The fact is, I don't believe I should want
her so much if I couldn't have Rose too. I want to have them both. So
far, I've only got no for an answer; but I'm not going to keep it. I had
a letter from Rose at Carlsbad, the other day; and--"
The waiter came forward with a folded scrap of paper on his salver, which
March knew must be from his wife. "What is keeping you so?" she wrote. "I
am all ready." "It's from Mrs. March," he explained to Kenby. "I am going
out with her on some errands. I'm awfully glad to see you again. We must
talk it all over, and you must--you mustn't--Mrs. March will want to see
you later--I--Are you in the hotel?"
"Oh yes. I'll see you at the one-o'clock table d'hote, I suppose."
March went away with his head whirling in the question whether he should
tell his wife at once of Kenby's presence, or leave her free for the
pleasures of Wurzburg, till he could shape the fact into some safe and
acceptable form. She met him at the door with her guide-books, wraps and
umbrellas, and would hardly give him time to get on his hat and coat.
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