He spoke aloud in his excitement, all that was masculine in him glowing with the sense of hard-won mastery over the tantalizing evasiveness of the woman.
On leaving his house he folded up the letter, thrust it into the breast-pocket of his frock-coat, and strode rapidly up the hill towards Mrs. Hooper's. At first he did not even think of her last words, but when he had gone up and down the first hill and was beginning to climb the second they suddenly came back to him. He did not want to meet her husband—least of all now. He paused. What should he do? Should he wait till to-morrow? No, that was out of the question; he couldn't wait. He must know what answer to send to the call. If Deacon Hooper happened to be at home he would talk to him about the door of the vestry, which would not shut properly. If the Deacon was not there, he would see her and force a confession from her....
While the shuttle of his thought flew thus to and fro, he did not at all realize that he was taking for granted what he had refused to believe half an hour before. He felt certain now that Deacon Hooper would not be in, and that Mrs. Hooper had got rid of him on purpose to avoid his importunate love-making. When he reached the house and rang the bell his first question was:
“Is the Deacon at home?”
“No, sah.”
“Is Mrs. Hooper in?”
“Yes, sah.”
“Please tell her I should like to see her for a moment. I will not keep her long. Say it's very important.”
“Yes, Massa, I bring her shuah,” said the negress with a good-natured grin, opening the door of the drawing-room.
In a minute or two Mrs. Hooper came into the room looking as cool and fresh as if “pies” were baked in ice.