"We have suffered in vain," he said at last, "and you are cold and stiffened with long standing. Let me put you in a cab and—"
"Oh, no, thank you! The walk will do me good."
"Perhaps you are right. I'll go with you to the car, and then I must go to my desk for six hours of hard work. Put this behind you," he said tenderly. "It does no good to suffer over the inevitable. Forget those men!"
"I can't! I shall never forget them while I live. It was awful!" She shuddered, but when she looked into his face she nearly cried out in astonishment at the light in his eyes.
"It had its grandeur. They went to their death like men. They have taught me a lesson. Hitherto I have drifted—henceforth I sail!" He bent to her with a mystical smile.
She drew away in a sort of awe as if she looked unworthily upon a sacred place. He misunderstood her action and said, "Don't be afraid. I have something to say to you, but not here; perhaps I'll write it. When do you go?"
"On Saturday."
"I will write you soon. Good bye."
She watched him as he moved away into the crowd, with powerful erect body—the deskman's droop almost gone out of his shoulders. What did he mean?
She was standing waiting for a chance to board a car when Elbert Harvey came pushing along against the wind, fresh and strong and glowing with color like a girl.