She turned and lifted to him a face that was stained with tears. Then she rose, holding out her arms towards him.
“Oh, Jerome!” she said. “I’m—going home!”
“Why—Em—dearie! What’s the matter! Tell me, what’s the matter?” He had gone close to her and taken her in his arms, and he made his question the demand of a man who does not like to deal with tears:
“What’s the matter, I say, tell me!”
A tone of terror had got into his voice.
“Look!” She drew a telegram from the bosom of her dress, and held it toward him. When he took it, she hid her face on his breast and shook with great sobs.
He took the telegram with his free hand, flirted it open and read:
“Your father ill. You had better come home at once.
Dr. G. S. Larkin.”
“Doctor G. S. Larkin!” Garwood said, repeating the signature, “that’s like him, to sign it Doctor.”