'
'No doubt you were, dear,' I murmured, with meekly lowered eyes.
'Don't you ever regret him as he was before?'
She sighed a little. 'Sometimes--particularly when dear William was
just beginning to grow again--did I have my qualms of discouragement.
A beard in its incipient stages is an unbecoming, almost startling
affair, Netta. Then of course, I find solace by looking at this,' and
she held out a small locket containing a portrait of William in his
glorified state. 'Also I always keep his white spats and lavender
gloves as a remembrance.'
There was a hint of sadness in the idea. It seemed almost as if
William was dead--one phase of him was, at all events.
'Then you _do_ regret----' I began.
'I regret nothing, Netta,' she broke in very decidedly. 'I am now
getting quite reconciled to dear William's present appearance, and I
know he's happier in his natural state.'
This was obviously true. William, his feet once more installed on the
mantelpiece, pulling hard at his pipe (filled for him by Marion's
loving hands) was a picture of perfect contentment.
But it was some time before I ventured to put the question to him that
was uppermost in my thoughts.
'Are you happy, William?' I asked tensely when, for a moment, we were
alone. 'Was my advice for better or for worse?'
He took my hand and wrung it warmly. 'My dear Netta!' he exclaimed,
'what a fool I was to hesitate even for a moment.
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