“He was afraid you were fretting about him. I never saw him more awfully pleased and glad than when I made up my mind to come out over the ice.”
“That appalling journey! You did it for him?”
“No, I didn’t.”
He waited, as if for a sign, and then, speaking almost surlily, “I did it for myself,” he said. “I’d been away long enough.”
“Yes,” said Hildegarde, “yes, indeed.”
“I couldn’t bear it any longer, sitting there in the dark and cold, and the”—she raised her eyes—“the—oh, it’s not such a bad place as people make out; if you aren’t eating your heart out to know—”
“What’s father doing?” she asked hastily.
“Waiting to hear from you. Waiting, like everybody else, for the ice to go out.”
“What will he do when the ice goes out?”