"Oh, why, hello!" said he at last, weakly.
"How—that is, how do you do?" Constance said, flushing adorably again.
"I didn't expect—I didn't know you were coming," stammered Dan Anderson.
She chilled at this, but went on wonderingly. "I got your letter—" she began.
"Letter? My letter—what letter?"
Constance looked at him fairly now, agitation sufficiently gone to enable her to notice details. She saw that Dan Anderson's left arm was supported upon the table, but apparently not seriously injured. And he had been writing—with his right hand—at this very moment! She almost sank to the ground. There had been some cruel misunderstanding! Was she always to be repudiated, shamed? She stood faltering, and would have turned away.
But by this time Dan Anderson's own numbed faculties came back to him with a rush. With a bound he was at her side, his right arm about her, holding her close, strong.
"Constance!" he cried. "Constance! You! You!" He babbled many things, his cheek pressed against hers. She could not speak.
"You see—you see—" exclaimed Dan Anderson, at length, half freeing her to look the more directly into her eyes, and to assure himself once more that it all was true—"I didn't understand at first. Of course, I sent the letter. I wrote it. I couldn't wait—I couldn't endure it any longer. Darling, I couldn't live without you—and so I wrote, I wrote! And you've come!"
"But your handwriting—" she murmured.