For a minute or two Laura remained motionless. Sinking inertly onto a chair after the door closed, she sat still, engrossed in deep thought.
This, then, was the end of her good resolutions and her hopes of regeneration! What would he say? Would he care and grieve after her, or would he treat it as a jest, an idle romance with which they had amused themselves those happy midsummer days in Denver? Yes—it was a dream—nothing more. Life was too hard, too brutal for such ideal longings to be possible of realization. It was just as well that she had come to her senses before it was too late.
Rising with a sigh, she crossed to the other side of the room, and halting at the wardrobe, stood contemplating John's portrait which was tacked up there. Then calmly, deliberately, she loosened the nails with a pair of scissors and took the picture down. Proceeding to the dresser, she picked up the small picture in the frame; then, kneeling on the mattress, she pulled down the large picture of him that was over the bed, and placed all three portraits under a pillow. Barely was this done, when there was a sharp rap at the door.
"Come in," she called out.
The door opened, and Brockton entered, well groomed and immaculately dressed. For a moment he stood irresolute on the threshold, just looking at her. There was obvious embarrassment on the part of each of them. Laura went toward him, with hand extended.
"Hello, Laura," he said pleasantly.
"I'm—I'm glad to see you, Will."
"Thank you."
"Won't you sit down?" she said timidly.
"Thank you again," he smiled.