“Well, I suppose it's poet's license,” said Elias.
Folding his newspaper, and getting upon his feet, the old man continued, “Well, I guess I may as well go out and get shaved, Chris. I'll leave you in the charge of Mr. Bacharach. Take care of her, Mr. B.” And he went away.
Elias was alone with her.
She sat far back in her chair, looking through half-closed lids into the fire. He sat forward, upon the ultimate edge of his chair, and looked at her. His breath was coming hard and fierce. The blood was bounding in his veins.
For a while neither of them spoke.
By and by Elias broke the silence.
“Miss—— Miss Redwood,” he began; then stopped.
“Yes?” she queried.
He began again, “Miss Redwood—” Again he stopped. His throat felt compressed, his mouth hot and parched. He knew perfectly well what he wanted to say; but his heart trembled so, he could not say it.
She, puzzled no doubt by these successive repetitions of her name, lifted her eyes inquiringly to his.