He sank back in his chair.
“Well, what does it all mean?” he murmured. “This is a cozy little vacation breakfast!”
Mrs. Bruce held her lip between her teeth as she mounted the stairs.
“Whatever has happened,” she thought, “I shall hold my own. What I said to Betsy was nothing but the truth. Irving will cross-question me, but I don’t care—”
Her excitement was at fever-heat by the time she reached the open door of Betsy’s room.
She paused there and supported herself against the jamb. What she saw acted like a shower-bath upon her.
The familiar walls were stripped, the breeze blew through the silent, empty room, and there, seated on the trunk, was Irving, his face buried in his hands, his broad shoulders convulsed.
The only time she had ever seen him weep was when his father died. This room, too, seemed like the chamber of death.
“Irving!” she cried out in sudden pain, and ran to him.