himself, and had rung to have his breakfast sent upstairs. Was it a pretext
to avoid her? She was vexed at her own readiness to see a portent in the
simplest incident; but while she blushed at her doubts she let them govern
her. She left the dining-room door open, determined not to miss him if
he came downstairs while she was at breakfast; then she went back to the
drawing-room and sat down at her writing-table, trying to busy herself with
some accounts while she listened for his step. Here too she had left the
door open; but presently even this slight departure from her daily usage
seemed a deviation from the passive attitude she had adopted, and she rose
and shut the door. She knew that she could still hear his step on the
stairs--he had his father's quick swinging gait--but as she sat listening,
and vainly trying to write, the closed door seemed to symbolize a refusal
to share in his trial, a hardening of herself against his need of her. What
if he should come down intending to speak, and should be turned from his
purpose? Slighter obstacles have deflected the course of events in those
indeterminate moments when the soul floats between two tides. She sprang
up quickly, and as her hand touched the latch she heard his step on the
stairs.

When he entered the drawing-room she had regained the writing-table and
could lift a composed face to his. He came in hurriedly, yet with a kind of
reluctance beneath his haste: again it was his father's step. She smiled,
but looked away from him as he approached her; she seemed to be re-living
her own past as one re-lives things in the distortion of fever.

"Are you off already?" she asked, glancing at the hat in his hand.

"Yes; I'm late as it is. I overslept myself." He paused and looked vaguely
about the room. "Don't expect me till late--don't wait dinner for me."