Part 41 (2/2)

”Yes; he's done miracles for both of us, more than we can possibly realize,” he said softly. ”More--”

”Harry,” interrupted Margery Randall's voice from the stairway, ”I'm sorry to hasten you men, but Elice thinks she must go. Her father isn't well, you know, and is at home alone.”

”I'll wait, Elice. It's early yet. See how your father is and come down when you can.” Armstrong looked at her meaningly, with all but an appeal.

”This is my night, you know. You really can't refuse to let me see you to-night.”

The girl busied herself with the lights and the gas in the grate.

”I know, Steve; but really I'd rather not see any one longer to-night.”

She took off her coat almost hurriedly. ”It's a busy time for me now before the holidays; and with father as he is--That's why I came away so early, you know. Not to-night, please, Steve.”

Armstrong silently paced the length of the little library, pitifully bare in comparison with the home they had just left. He halted.

”Do you realize that you've invariably prevented, by one excuse or another, my talking with you alone in months now?” he asked abruptly.

”Don't you mean ever to give me a chance again? You know what it is I wish to speak about, Elice.”

The girl was standing--quite still now.

”Yes, I know what it is you wish,” she corroborated.

Armstrong fingered the gloves in his hand nervously. ”Aren't you going to listen then? I won't attempt to make any apologies for the past. I can't.

But I'd hoped you'd forgotten, or at least forgiven, by this time. I've tried to make good, honestly, Elice; and to-night particularly--don't stand me in the corner any longer, please. I've been punished enough.”

”Punished!” The girl wheeled. ”I wonder--” She checked herself suddenly.

”Very well,” she digressed swiftly,--”wait. I'll be back soon,” and she was gone.

Alone Armstrong threw hat and topcoat into a chair almost irritably; walking over to the grate, he stood gazing down into the blaze absently.

For some reason it called to mind another grate and another occasion when he had looked absently therein; and almost unconsciously he caught himself glancing at the shelf above, half expecting to catch the play of light from a red decanter thereon. With the shrug of one who banishes an unpleasant memory he turned away. He was still standing, however, when the girl returned.

”Is there any way I can a.s.sist, with your father?” he asked perfunctorily.

”No, thank you. He's asleep. It's mental, the trouble with him, more than anything else.” She sat down and indicated a place opposite. ”I'm so glad Harry Randall escaped in time.”

”And I as well?”

”Yes, and you, a.s.suredly.”

Armstrong waited; but she said no more, and with an odd diffidence he cleared his throat unnecessarily.

”It's sacrilege, though, for us to talk commonplaces to-night,” he antic.i.p.ated hastily. ”There's too much else to discuss, and to-day has meant too much. Do you realize what this day really means for both of us, Elice?”

The long fingers lay in the girl's lap, quite still.

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