“’Tis little good that would do now. He’s gone away, and my father would be getting a raise in his pay, little knowing why he got it.”
Though the windows were open to the summer night breeze David felt as if he were suffocating. Springing to his feet he began to pace the narrow limits of the little sitting-room.
“Glo,” he said chokingly, “this is the most awful thing I’ve ever had to face. I came here to-night just as I used to come years ago. I meant to tell you that I had found the girl that I hoped some day to marry. And now you tell me that I led you up to the edge and left you where the next man who came along could push you over.”
“No, Davie, dear; I’m not blaming you,” came from the green-covered sofa.
“But I am blaming myself.” He stopped abruptly before her. “Let me see your face, Glory: have you been trying to tell me that I ought to marry you?”
She would not look up. “And you with another girl in your heart? I’m not that wicked, Davie.”
“Then at least you must let me talk to you as we used to talk in the other days; straight from the shoulder. I was wiser than I knew, a little while ago, Glory, when I said that your safety was in marriage. Can’t you forget and start afresh? There are plenty of young fellows here in your part of town who would never ask you to turn back a single leaf of your life book for them; can’t you marry one of them and make him a good wife, Glory?”
She shook her head. “I can not,” she said shortly.
He drew out his watch and held its dial to the lamp light. It was time to be gone.
“I must go; I am leaving town to-night, and the kindest thing I can hope for you is that you’ll never see my face again. It doesn’t help matters any, but if you have suffered, I shall suffer, too. You have put a mark on me that I shall carry to my grave.”