Out of such stuff one of two things is evolved—a resentful man, or the most sacred thing, that can enter a woman's life, a true friend.
Martin had made a success of his profession; his unfulfilled hopes had seemed to broaden his sympathies instead of damming them.
As the clock struck nine Martin appeared at the doorway—a tall, massive figure, the shoulders inclined to droop as though prepared for burdens; the eyes, under shaggy brows, were as tender as a woman's, but the mouth and chin were like iron.
"David, it was good of you to come." Doris met him on the steps and led him to his favourite chair, drawn close to the blazing fire.
"To take any chance leisure of yours is selfish—but I had to!"
Martin took the outstretched hands and still held them as he sat down. After all the silent years the old thrill filled his being.
"This is a great treat," he said in his big, kind voice. "I was just back in the office. I steered two small craft into port this afternoon—I need a vacation."
Doris recalled how this phase of Martin's profession always exhausted him, and she smiled gently into his eyes. Just then the tray she had ordered was sent up. He looked at it and his tired face relaxed; the deep eyes betrayed the boyish delight in the thought that had prompted the act.
"You must need me pretty bad to pay so high!" he said, watching Doris pour the thick cream into his cup of chocolate.
"I do, David, but really I'm not buying; I'm indulging myself. May I chatter while you eat? There are three kinds of sandwiches on the plate. Take them in turn, they are warranted to blend." Then quite suddenly: