"Why, Miss Thomasina is young!" said Richard.
He did not go home, because he was afraid that he might find Cora still there, or his mother might be waiting to reprove him. He was determined to endure no more reproof, to take part in no more argument. Argument was undignified and worse than useless. It left opponents with opinions unchanged, but deeply offended with one another; it prevented one from working for a whole day; it numbed one's mind and paralyzed one's hand and blinded one's eyes.
So, to avoid an encounter that night, Richard went to see Eleanor Bent. He had to see Eleanor as he had had to see Thomasina. It was after nine o'clock and he was suddenly frightened lest she might have gone to bed, and he took a short cut down a lane and ran.
Eleanor came promptly to the door and then out to the porch in the soft dark night, and sat down on the upper step. All day she and her mother had avoided each other's eyes. She was forlorn and deeply troubled.
"No, I wasn't thinking of bed. I have always hated to go to bed."
She bent forward and the light from the doorway shone on her dark hair and made her bright eyes gleam, and the little breeze which blew across her to Richard brought the faint scent of perfume. Her voice seemed to have deepened overnight and she spoke with a little tremolo as though she were not quite in command of it.
Richard told his story, at once calmed and further excited. When one has found in one human being both stimulation and peace, a die is cast. He was going to-morrow to Baltimore to see Faversham and arrange for his winter's work. He was going to play for him, to show him his compositions. It was already late and he could not stay. He merely wanted her to know, to think of him.
Eleanor leaned a little toward him.
"Oh, don't go yet," said she, her voice trembling. This, it seemed to her, was the beginning of the end.
"I must," said Richard.