A resolution had formed itself rapidly in Margaret’s mind. Thrusting the letter deep into her pocket, she walked swiftly up the path to the house. She sent Creed with a telegram before she entered the library. Melwin was standing with his back to her, staring out through the leaded diamonds of the window. He turned slowly, gazing over her shoulder. His face had lapsed into its habitual neutral passiveness. His pupils had contracted into their peculiar unrefracting dulness, and his hands hung without motion.
“Melwin,” she said, “I’m going back to the city. I have received a letter which makes it necessary. I think I will take the evening train.”
He turned again to the window. “Must you—go?” His voice was toneless and dull.
“Yes,” she answered. “I will look in and say good-by to Lydia.” She waited a moment uncertainly, but he did not speak, and she left him standing there.
Turning the knob of Lydia’s door softly, she pushed it open and entered. Lydia lay with her face turned toward the wall; her regular breathing showed that she slept. Margaret could not bear to awaken her. A wavering smile was on her parted lips and gave a fragile loveliness to the delicate transparency of her skin. Perhaps a happy dream had come for awhile to beckon her from ever-present pain. Perhaps she was dreaming that she was well and knew and filled a strong man’s yearning.
Margaret closed the door noiselessly. Going to her room, she pencilled a little note, and tiptoeing cautiously back through the hall, slipped the missive under Lydia’s door.
And this was her farewell.