"News of—father? Why, yes! I'll be there on time, Tom. Japanese Room!"
So, at the hour when the galleries were totally deserted, Tom Dennis was striding up and down in the Japanese Room, past the cases filled with lacquer ware. In his present mood of frowning meditation, his features looked almost forbidding; they were strong features, rugged with an uncompromising virility. Looking at them, one could understand how this man, unaided, had first worked his way through college and had later gone to the top of an overcrowded profession.
On time almost to the minute, Florence Hathaway appeared. Dennis met her at the door, his hand to hers; a swift glance around, and he bent his lips to hers.
"This way, dear!" he said, turning. "There'll be no interruptions then."
Together they made their way outside to one of the little balconies overlooking the smoky park and lake front. Brushing off two of the chairs, Tom Dennis set them by the stone rail.
"What on earth is it all about, Tom?" asked the girl wonderingly.
"Me, first—then you," smiling he filled his pipe and lighted it. Then he set about his tale, beginning with his own situation of the previous afternoon, and passing on to the coming of Boatswain Joe. He described his own hopeless case very bluntly and frankly.
Florence Hathaway did not interrupt him, but sat in silence, her eyes fastened upon his rugged face, reading there the signs of his past worries and failure. They were fine eyes, those that dwelt upon him with love and tenderness. An artist might have said that they were too large for her face, that their glowing brown depths held too passionate a fervor, too calmly poised a radiance, to match her almost colourless cheeks. By no rule could Florence Hathaway be adjudged beautiful; and yet Marshville had missed her more than all its other absent daughters put together.
In her eyes, indeed, lay the brave and tender soul of Florence Hathaway. Frail seemed her slender, almost girlish body; yet one who gazed into her level eyes knew that hers was an indomitable spirit—a heritage perhaps, from that lost father whose iron soul had battled the men and winds and seas of half the world.
"Then you've left Marshville for good?" she asked quietly when Dennis paused.