"As you like." He returned to his work, crossing out a whole line and a half with broad, emphatic marks. Then he bent lower, and the interest in his page seemed to redouble, for he heard the door of Bernal's room open. Nancy called:
"Bernal!"
He came to the door where she stood and she stepped a little inside so that he might enter.
"I am anxious about a letter. Ah, you have it!"
She was scanning him with a look that was acid to eat out any untruth in his face.
"Yes—it just came." She held it out to him. He looked at the front of the envelope, then up to her half-shut eager eyes—eyes curiously hardened now—then he blushed flagrantly—a thorough, riotous blush—and reached for the letter with a pitiful confusion of manner, not again raising his uneasy eyes to hers.
"I was expecting—looking—for a message, you know—yes, yes—this is it—thank you very much, you know!"
He stammered, his confusion deepened. With the letter clutched eagerly in his hand he went out.
She looked after him, intently. When he had shut his own door she glanced over at the inattentive Allan, once more busy at his manuscript and apparently unconscious of her presence.
A long time she stood in silence, trying to moderate the beating of her heart. Once she turned as if to go, but caught herself and turned again to look at the bent head of Allan.