So much of his time had been spent at Horton House that unbroken absence would have been noticeable. His visits were, however, rarer, and on one occasion Mrs. Horton made an announcement which he found decidedly startling.
“I have been wanting to take a trip to Cuba early in the fall, and possibly go on to Venezuela where some old friends are in the diplomatic service,” she said, “but Mr. Horton pleads business, and I can’t persuade Duska to go with me.”
At once, Steele had taken up the project with enthusiasm, asking to be admitted to the party and beginning an outline of plans.
Saxon found himself shuddering at the idea of the girl’s going to the coast where perhaps he himself had a criminal record. He had procrastinated too long. He had secretly planned his own trip of self-investigation for a time when the equatorial heat had begun to abate its midsummer ferocity. Evidently, he must hasten his departure. But the girl’s answer in part reassured him.
“It doesn’t appeal, Aunty. Why not get the Longmores? They are always ready to go touring. They’ve exhausted the far East, and are weeping for new worlds.”
Saxon went back early that night, and once more tramped the woods. Steele lingered, and later, while the whippoorwills were calling and a small owl plaintively lamenting, he and Duska sat alone on the white-columned verandah.
“Duska,” he said suddenly, “is there no chance for me—no little outside chance?”
She looked up, and shook her head slowly.
“I wish I could say something else, George,” she answered earnestly, “because I love you as a very dearest brother and friend, but that is all it can ever be.”
“Is there no way I can remake or remold myself?” he urged. “I have held the Platonic attitude all summer, but to-night makes all the old uncontrollable thoughts rise up and clamor for expression. Is there no way?”