Tears were in her eyes again. The loss was so recent still—the memory so painful. He drew her to him, and kissed them away.
“That night, Ethel, that first, terrible night when you were alone, it nearly killed me to have to go away and leave you, to feel I could not do anything at all. You must let me comfort you doubly now to make up for it. You must come to me quickly.” She smiled softly, and he added: “It would have been Basil’s wish, too. He hated the office as much as I do. Tell them tomorrow that you’re not coming any more.”
Her smile deepened at his boyishness.
“There are certain hard-and-fast rules to be observed about leaving. I’m afraid they won’t waive them for you.”
“Well, tell them you are going to be married… You are going to be married, aren’t you?…” for a moment he was almost like Hal. “Well, why don’t you answer? I want to know.”
“I haven’t made up my mind sufficiently yet,” with a low, happy laugh.
“Then I must make it up for you.”
His manner changed again to one of wondering, absorbing tenderness. Hal had been right, as usual. Under the man’s surface-narrowness and superiority was a deep, true heart that had only been waiting the hour of its great emancipation. He took her in his arms and kissed her again and again.
“Child,” he breathed, “haven’t I waited long enough? Every hour of the last few months, since I knew, has been like a year. Don’t make me leave you here alone one moment longer than is necessary.”