"Of course I know, Bartley," she said at last, "that after this you

won't owe me the least consideration. But we sail on Tuesday. I saw that

interview in the paper yesterday, telling where you were, and I thought

I had to see you. That's all. Good-night; I'm going now." She turned and

her hand closed on the door-knob.

Alexander hurried toward her and took her gently by the arm. "Sit down,

Hilda; you're wet through. Let me take off your coat--and your boots;

they're oozing water." He knelt down and began to unlace her shoes,

while Hilda shrank into the chair. "Here, put your feet on this stool.

You don't mean to say you walked down--and without overshoes!"

Hilda hid her face in her hands. "I was afraid to take a cab. Can't you

see, Bartley, that I'm terribly frightened? I've been through this a

hundred times to-day. Don't be any more angry than you can help. I was

all right until I knew you were in town. If you'd sent me a note, or

telephoned me, or anything! But you won't let me write to you, and I had

to see you after that letter, that terrible letter you wrote me when you

got home."

Alexander faced her, resting his arm on the mantel behind him, and began

to brush the sleeve of his jacket. "Is this the way you mean to answer

it, Hilda?" he asked unsteadily.

She was afraid to look up at him. "Didn't--didn't you mean even to say

goodby to me, Bartley? Did you mean just to--quit me?" she asked. "I

came to tell you that I'm willing to do as you asked me. But it's no use

talking about that now. Give me my things, please." She put her hand out

toward the fender.

Alexander sat down on the arm of her chair. "Did you think I had

forgotten you were in town, Hilda? Do you think I kept away by accident?

Did you suppose I didn't know you were sailing on Tuesday? There is a

letter for you there, in my desk drawer. It was to have reached you on

the steamer. I was all the morning writing it. I told myself that if I

were really thinking of you, and not of myself, a letter would be better

than nothing. Marks on paper mean something to you." He paused. "They

never did to me."

Hilda smiled up at him beautifully and put her hand on his sleeve. "Oh,

Bartley! Did you write to me? Why didn't you telephone me to let me know

that you had? Then I wouldn't have come."




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