“I'm sure you ought not to use it yet. Please put it back in the sling.” She drew her own hand gently away.
It occurred to him that while he had been absent from her he had not been able to recall half her charm, and that if he had he would never have been able to wait half so long before pursuing her down into this Southern haunt of hers. He drew a full, contented breath.
“At last,” he said, “I am face to face with you. It's worth the journey.”
In the lamplight it seemed to him the rose cast a reflection on her face which he had not observed at first.
“I'm so sorry Aunt Lucy isn't able to see you tonight,” she said—“unless she would consent go see you professionally. She really ought—”
He held up his hand “Not unless she is in serious straits, please,” he begged. “I've fled from patients, only to find them all the way down on the train. I don't know what there can be about me to suggest to a conductor that I'm the man he's looking for to attend some emergency case, but he seems to spot me. Only at the station before this did I get released from the last of the series. Let me forget my profession for a bit if I can, just now I'm only a man who's come a long way to see you. Is it really you?”
He leaned forward, studying her intently. His head, with its coppery thatch of heavy hair, showed powerful lines in the lamplight; beneath his dark throws the hazel eyes glowed black.
“It's certainly I,” she answered lightly. “And being I, with the mistress of the house prevented from showing you hospitality, I must offer it. She begged me to make you comfortable and to tell you she would see you in the morning. You've had a long journey. You must want the comfort of a room and hot water. I'll ring for Old Sam.”
She crossed the room and pulled an old-fashioned bell-cord, upon which a bell was heard to jangle far away. The old darky reappeared.
“I should have gone to a hotel,” Burns said, “if I could have found one in the place.”