Usually so punctilious about the courtesies, he remained seated, his knuckles whitening in his grip of the crumpled magazine. That he now avoided looking at her filled her with the equivocal sensations of hope and fear which had unsteadied her that night of the dinner. But she tried not to feel for herself. She wanted all she was to feel for him. She saw that he was making an effort to get himself in hand and wished that she might help him. Yet she hesitated to speak lest she sound some discordant note.
“I thought it was only Jack I was lonely for—that sitting in his room, among his things—— But I was deluding myself. I know that now. The sight of you—— Well, it has not calmed me.”
All too brief a glance he lifted to her startled eyes.
“If I seem strange or—or incoherent—— Dolores, you never could imagine such loneliness as I’ve been suffering. Every night since I moved to the club, I’ve been obsessed with the desire to come here. I knew I shouldn’t trust myself. Last night I tramped the street until five in the morning to wear out the wish. But to-night it came back stronger than before. It has half crazed me—has worn me out. I—I am run down, I guess. I feel like the last half-second of an eight-day clock.”
At his simile, the girl glanced toward the corner. The hour hand of the tall old time-piece was exactly where it had been, close to eleven. She realized why the silence had seemed so intense when she first had entered the room. Shocked, she leaned closer to John Cabot.
“Jack’s clock,” she murmured. “I wound it only yesterday. It has stopped.”
As he, too, turned and looked, his face reflected her superstitious tone. The quiet increased. Everything in their world seemed to have stopped.
The young Airedale broke the pause. With a whine and one paw he importuned the master’s lax-hanging hand. John pushed him away.
“I owe you worse than nothing, puppy. I meant that Jack should be considerate of you, but not that he should die for you.”
The dog appeared to understand; at least, raised his head and howled dismally.