The low, soft tones of her voice soothed him, and he answered: "I would not have allowed her to believe I intended marrying her. I did not tell her in words that I would, but—I can't tell you. I can't speak." He saw Rita's face turn pale, and though his words almost choked him, he continued, "I suppose I must pay the penalty of my sin."
He gently put the girl from him, and went to the window, where he leaned, gazing into the street. She also rose, and stood waiting for him to speak. After a long pause she called his name,—
"Dic!"
When he turned she was holding out her arms to him, and the next moment they were round his neck.
After a blank hour of almost total silence in the parlor, Miss Tousy came to the door and knocked. She had listened at the door several times during the hour; but, hearing no enlightening words or sounds, she had retreated in good order.
Allowing a moment to elapse after knocking, Miss Tousy called:—
"Are you still there?"
Rita had been very still there, and was vividly conscious of the fact when Miss Tousy knocked. Going to the door, Rita opened it, saying:—
"Yes, we are still here. I'm ashamed to have kept you out so long." She looked her shame and blushed most convincingly.
Upon hearing the knock, Dic hurried over to the window, and when Miss Tousy entered he deluded himself into the belief that his attitude of careless repose would induce her to conclude he had been standing there all the afternoon. But Miss Tousy, in common with all other young ladies, had innate knowledge upon such subjects, and possibly also a little experience—she was twenty-five, mind you—; so she was amused rather than deceived.