"Lady in Parlor D asked me to hand you this, sir," the boy said.
He accepted the slight bit of paper, scarcely comprehending what it
could all mean, turned on an electric bulb over the dresser, and looked
at it. A single line of delicate writing confronted him, so faint that
he was compelled to bend closer to decipher: "If you are waiting my
word, I send it."
He caught at the dresser-top as though some one had struck him, staring
down at the card in his hand, and then around the silent room, his
breath grown rapid. At first the words were almost meaningless; then
the blood came surging up into his face, and he walked toward the door.
There he paused, his hand already upon the knob. What use? What use?
Why should he seek her, even although she bade him come? She might no
longer care, but he did; to her such a meeting might be only a mere
incident, an experience to be lightly talked over, but to him such an
interview could only prove continual torture. But no! The thought
wronged her; such an action would not be possible to Beth Norvell. If
she despatched this message it had been done honestly, done graciously.
He would show himself a craven if he failed to face whatever awaited
him below. With tightly compressed lips, he closed the door, and
walked to the elevator.
She stood waiting him alone, slightly within the parlor door, her
cheeks flushed, her red lips parted in an attempt to smile. With a
single glance he saw her as of old, supremely happy, her dark eyes
clear, her slender form swaying slightly toward him as if in welcome.
For an instant their gaze met, his full of uncertainty, hers of
confidence; then she stretched out to him her two ungloved hands.
"You gave me a terrible scare to-night," she said, endeavoring to speak
lightly, "and then, to make matters worse, you ran away. It was not
like you to do that."
"I could not bring myself to mar the further happiness of your night,"
he explained, feeling the words choke in his throat as he uttered them.
"My being present at the Opera House was all a mistake; I did not dream
it was you until too late. But the supper was another thing."
She looked intently at him, her expression clearly denoting surprise.
"I really cannot believe you to be as indifferent as you strive to
appear," she said at last, her breath quickening. "One does not forget
entirely in three short years, and I--I caught that one glimpse of you
in the box. It was that--that look upon your face which gave me
courage to send my card to your room." She paused, dropping her eyes
to the carpet, her fingers nervously playing with the trimming of her
waist. "It may, perhaps, sound strange, yet in spite of my exhibit of
feeling at first discovering your presence, I had faith all day that
you would come."