“Oh, Grif!” she said; “Grif—darling!”
But he did not offer to touch her, and strode past her outstretched hands.
“Come into this room with me,” he said, hoarsely; and the simple sound of his voice struck her to the heart like a blow.
She followed him, trembling, and when they stood in the light, and she saw his deathly, passion-wrung face, her hand crept up to her side and pressed against it.
He had a package in his hand,—a package of letters,—and he laid them down on the table.
“I have been home for these,” he said. “Your letters,—I have brought them back to you.”
“Grif!” she cried out.
He waved her back.
“No,” he said, “never mind that. It is too late for that now, that is all over. Good God! all over!” and he panted for breath. “I have been in this room waiting for you,” he struggled on, “since five o'clock. I came with my heart full to the brim. I have dreamt about what this evening was to be to us every night for a week. I was ready to kneel and kiss your feet. I waited hour after hour. I was ready to pray—yes, to pray, like a fool—that I might hold you in my arms before the night ended. Not half an hour ago I went out to see if you were coming. And you were coming. At the corner of the street you were bidding good-night to—to Ralph Gowan—”
“Listen!” she burst forth. “Mollie was with me—