"I suppose, David, it is—but it seems to me I never lived before to-night."
He seemed on the point of telling me something more. I wish he had, though it probably would not have changed the course of events which followed.
"Well," he said, "I'll go home and be decent. I never thought until this moment what you must think of me for routing you out in the middle of the night! And Harriet, too! What will she say?"
He looked at me ruefully, whimsically. It was just as he had said: he had never thought of it.
"David, I'm awfully sorry and ashamed of myself. I'm a selfish devil."
What a boy he was: and how could any one hold a grudge against him! He was now all contrition, feared he'd wake up Harriet, and promised to creep out without making a sound. I asked him to stay with us, but he insisted that he couldn't, that he must get home. So he opened the door of the study, and tiptoed with exaggerated caution down the hall. At the door he paused and said in a whisper:
"David, there was some one at that window."
"Nonsense."
"Well, good-night."
"Good-night, Nort, and God bless you."