“Hush! Here is the elevator. I can't say anything more tonight. I don't have to go back to Camp till tomorrow night. Tomorrow morning,—I'll call up. I must see you alone—and not here.”
“I go out every morning for a walk,—about eleven,” she breathed.
The elevator door slid open.
“Good night,” said he. She clasped his hand in silence. Then she went back into the apartment, and, as one drugged, passed the drawingroom door and staggered down the hall toward her bedroom.
Mrs. Carstairs, alone in the drawing-room, saw the girl pass, and stepped quickly to the door.
“Louise, dear,—are you ill!” she called out.
“No,—Aunt Frieda. I—I'm all right. Good night.”
“Good night, dear. Sleep late.”
The door down the long hall closed softly, and Frieda Carstairs turned back into the drawingroom with a sigh. Her husband was looking over the night mail that had been piled on his desk in the study. She went in to him.
“I wonder if poor, dear Alfred is struggling with that abominable nightmare of his,” she said. “Really, Davenport, the boy is wearing himself out. I don't see why physics should be so difficult for him.”