“No, but I heard him play some of his own compositions. Something was said about us both joining the club. It’s too literary for me.”
“I am his voucher. He sails soon and I don’t think he expects to come into the club until he returns in the winter.”
Glenn turned to Esther, who was absorbed in the last number on the programme.
She spoke softly to him. Gathering up her white silk shawl, he folded it about her shoulders.
“We are going in a minute. The lady you see with white hair in this box next to us is a leader in artistic circles. I want her to know you.”
The curtain fell as they arose. Linking his little finger in hers under the fringe, he led her over to the box. There was something in his manner that expressed beyond question his determination that never while he had strength should the world darken this child’s soul.
CHAPTER VIII.
Glenn Andrews was unwearied in his visits, and held to an abiding faith in Esther’s future, and stronger and stronger grew his determination to be steadfastly loyal to her. He seemed to have an exhaustless reserve fund of nerve power. Stinted in sleep, as he was, and overwhelmed by his own work, yet he made time to look after her.
With an infinite patience he was cutting a niche for himself, and above it a name.
His admirable solicitude for Esther was at strange variance with his desire to wound her, bruise her, make her think and feel.