Half turning away, she put out her hand; he seized it quickly, and found it cold.
“I’ll not say anything more now,” he breathed, close to her shoulder, holding the hand fast in his grasp; “but some time, Janet—some time when you are ready to listen—I’ll have something more to say.”
On the street he swung off with a free, vigorous stride, his heart beating high. He had won; he was sure of it. The knowledge of her interest in the man, which he had feared might develop into something deeper, had led him to realize the full extent of his own regard for her. She was a poor clergyman’s daughter, and he was the son of Cyrus King, but the little god had winged his arrow straight, and the wound was deliciously deep.
Twenty minutes after King left, Janet, having donned hat and wrap, came out and walked swiftly down the street. Her face was chill and sad; she was deserted by hope; yet she would see Henry Cope.
Behind his counter, the grocer peered at her over his glasses.
“Mornin’, Janet,” he said cheerfully. “’Nother ruther nice day.”
“Mr. Cope, I’d like to speak with you a moment privately.”
Surprised, he took note of her pallor and the girl’s troubled look. Her voice had an unusual sound. Pushing up his spectacles, he came from behind the counter.
“Step inter my office,” he invited.
In the office he urged her to sit down, saying she looked tired; but she preferred to stand.