“No,” she returned firmly, “I will see Mr. Overton to-morrow. I promise you I will, James.”
There was a short pause.
“Now about that bay-window,” Emmons began; but glancing at his betrothed he was surprised to observe tears in her eyes. She rose to her feet.
“Suppose you go home, James,” she said not unkindly. “I feel tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”
“I can see that blackguard worries you,” said Emmons; but he obeyed.
Yet strangely enough after his departure she did not go to bed, but sat on in the little parlor trying to read. But her chin was often raised from her book to listen for footsteps. At eleven she went upstairs, but she was still awake when after midnight she heard Vickers return.
Chapter IX
Procrastination is the thief of more than time;—it is only too often the thief of opportunity. Vickers, who knew very well that he might have made his escape any time in the course of the last month, if only he had been sure he wanted to, now saw before him the prospect of making a more hurried flight than suited his purpose. He had allowed himself to drift, had asked how the present situation was to end, without attempting any answer. And now he had to give an answer within a few days.
He found Overton in his library. Books, mostly in calf-skin covers, stood on shelves that ran almost to the ceiling. Overton was reading—not one of those heavy volumes, but a modern novel in a flaming cover.
“Well, young man,” he said, looking up without surprise, for it was no longer unusual for Vickers to come in like this, “I warn you that I am in a romantic mood. I don’t know that I care to talk to common, everyday mortals like you. I wish I had lived when men wore ruffles and a sword. Then you got romance at first hand.”