Taking a final peep at himself in the mirror, he extinguished the light and went out. When bidding him adieu on Sunday, the girl had invited him to call some time, and he proposed to do so this evening.
As he drew near the parsonage, however, he faltered, and his pace slackened. She had shunned him upon the street; would she not refuse to see him now?
“She must give me a chance to explain,” he muttered desperately. “Surely she’ll do that. I can’t believe she’ll decline to see me for a few minutes, at least.”
Locke’s pulse beat rapidly. With his handkerchief he wiped his forehead. It was ridiculous, of course, for a man like him to flush and shiver like a big boy suffering from his first attack of calf love; but, try as he might, he could not steady himself as he approached the cottage and discovered that, though the curtains were drawn, there was a light in the parlor.
Perhaps Benton King was there! Well, what of it? Was he the man to turn back and leave the field to a rival? Were King there, it was all the more reason why he should make haste to put himself right in her eyes. His jaws set, he followed the walk to the front door, and rang.
One of the parlor windows, near by, was open, but the shade was drawn well down, so that anybody within the room could not be seen by a person outside who might seek to look in. As he turned in from the street, he had fancied he caught the sound of voices drifting out through that window, and one was, he believed, that of Janet.
Presently the maid came, and he asked for Miss Harting. “I haven’t a card,” he said. “Please tell her it is Mr. Locke, who would like to see her a few minutes.”
He was left standing in the hall, which was lighted by the soft glow of a shaded lamp. In a brief time the maid returned.
“Miss Harting is engaged,” she said, “and cannot see you.”
It seemed that his heart stopped beating, and he stood quite still, unwilling to believe it could be true. The maid opened the door. He passed out with the step of a somnambulist.