John Stone rose to go. “Then I may come to see you again—Evelyn?” he asked.
Her heart throbbed a little as she heard her name from his lips.
“Oh yes,” she replied, cordially. “Come and see me as often as you can. I hate to be as lonely as I was this afternoon.”
And she held out her hand.
“Good-by, then,” he responded, and he raised her hand again and kissed it.
When he had gone she walked restlessly to and fro for several minutes. At last she opened her desk and took out the unfinished letter and tore it up impatiently. Then she went to the window and peered out.
Twilight was settling down over the city, but the sky was leaden, with not a gleam of sunset along the horizon. Lights were already twinkling here and there over the vast expanse of irregular roofs across which she was looking. The rain was heavier than ever, and it fell in sheets, now, as though it would never cease.
Yet the solitary woman looking out at the dreary prospect did not feel so lonely as she had felt two hours earlier. She had meant to accept John Stone, and she had rejected him. But it was a comfort to her to know that somewhere in the immense city that spread out before her there was a man who really loved her.
(1898)