“Laughing at me? I don’t wonder; it’s very sentimental—but then, you know, I have a streak of sentiment in me.”
When Joan left her, Emily brushed the tears from her eyes and slowly rose. “I ought to be used to him by this time,” she said. “But—oh, why did he spoil it! Why does he always spoil it!”
At the office, she was apparently bright again, certainly was looking very lovely and a little mischievous as she went in to see Stilson. “I’d thank you, if I dared,” she said, “but I know that you’d cut me short with some remark about my thanks being an insinuation that you were cheating the proprietors of the Democrat by showing favouritism.” She was no longer in the least afraid of him. “Perhaps you’d like it better if I told you I was angry about it.”
“And why angry, pray?” There was a twinkle deep down in his sombre sardonic eyes.
“Because you’re sending me away to get rid of me.”
He winced and flushed a deep red. He rose abruptly and bowed. “No thanks are necessary,” he said, and he was standing at the window with his back to her.
“I beg your pardon,” she said to his strong, uncompromising shoulders. “I did not mean to offend you—you must know that.”
“Offend me?” He turned his face toward her but did not let her see his eyes. He put out his hand and just touched hers before drawing it away. “My manner is unfortunate. But—that is not important. Success to you, if I don’t see you before you sail.”
As she left his office she could see his face, his eyes, in profile. His expression was more than sad—it was devoid of hope.
“Where have I seen an expression like that before?” she wondered. But she could not then remember.