“Well, I should say I know that, Jack.”
Routt thrust out his hand. “Shake on it, Wint.”
Wint laughed. “You’re dramatic enough.” But he shook hands.
They rejoined the others after a while, and Wint was glad of it. He had hidden his feelings from Routt; but as a matter of fact he was a good deal surprised and chagrined at Jack’s news. He had heard rumors; but he had not believed Routt would come out against him. It was a thing he, Wint, would not have done.... It smacked, he felt, of disloyalty to a friend. He had even, for a moment, a thought of withdrawing and leaving the field free to Routt. But he put it away. After all, he was first in the fight; it was Routt who had brought about this situation, not he. He could not well avoid the issue.
Nevertheless, he was troubled. The world that had seemed so bright and fair a month ago had a less cheerful aspect now. His fears for Hetty, his anxiety over her, were always with him, faintly oppressive. Now Routt’s desertion, his projected opposition. Try as he would to shake it off, Wint could not rid himself of the feeling that there were rough places on the road that lay ahead.
His anxiety over Hetty was relieved—though only to take a new turn—in the last week of September. For Hetty came back to Hardiston.
Wint met her on the street one day. He was immensely surprised; and he was immensely pleased to see her, safe and sound. He cried: “Why, Hetty, where did you come from?”
She looked around furtively, as though she would have avoided him if it had been possible to do so. “Didn’t you expect me to come back?” she asked sullenly.
“Of course. But.... How are you? All right? Where have you been?”
“Summering in New England,” she said ironically. “Where’d you think?”