"There isn't much to tell. I guess I'm pretty much like any one else when it comes down to—to … I don't want to go on, alone. I want to be woven in with you. I want…"
He stood still in a vain effort to make the words come. "I can't talk!" he cried, and his voice broke in a sob.
"You needn't," she said; and pressing his hand against her breast she led him on again. She was trembling and her hand was cold.
Nothing more was said between them, all the way. But when they reached her door and managed to open it she stood for a moment peering through the dusk into his face.
"If it's true…" she said. "If you really want a home and a wife—like me… Oh, yes, I know it's true!"
CHAPTER XXVI
JOHN ARRIVES
Two or three hours after March and Mary came to the Dearborn Avenue house that Sunday morning, a little before eight o'clock to be precise, John Wollaston, deterred by humane considerations from ringing the door-bell, tried his latch-key first and found it sufficient. Rather surprisingly since his sister was particular about bolts and chains. But this mild sensation was engulfed the next moment in clear astonishment when he encountered in the drawing-room doorway, Anthony March.
The piano tuner was coatless and in his socks. Evidently it was no less recent an event than the sound of the latchkey which had roused him from sleep.
"Oh," he said. "It's you, sir." And added as he came a little wider awake, "I'm very glad you've come."