When at length Millard found himself in front of Mrs. Callender's, and saw by the light that the family were sitting together in the front basement, his heart failed him, and he walked past the house and as far as the next corner, where his Fate, his Dæmon, his blind impulsion, turned him back, and he did not falter again until he had rung the door-bell; and then it was too late to withdraw.
"You are wet, Charley; sit nearer the register," said Phillida, when she saw how the rain had beaten upon his trousers and how recklessly he had plunged his patent-leather shoes into the street puddles. This little attention to his comfort softened Millard's mood, but it was impossible long to keep back the torrent of feeling. Phillida was alarmed at his ominous abstraction.
"I don't care for the rain," he said.
"But you know there is a good deal of pneumonia about."
"I—I am not afraid of pneumonia," he said. "I might as well die as to suffer what I do."
"What is the matter, Charley?" demanded Phillida, alarmed.
"Matter? Why, I have to sit in the club and hear you called a crank and an impostor."
Phillida turned pale.
"Vulgar cads like Meadows," he gasped, "not fit for association with gentlemen, call you a quack seeking after money, and will not be set right. I came awfully near to punching his head."
"Why, Charley!"