With a face as pale as her own, Miles stood grasping the door frame. He had been raised above the world, to see the lighted prospect of felicity; and now his pinnacle was knocked from under.
“Anna,” he ventured, moving heavily across the threshold. “Anna, don’t—”
“I didn’t understand.” Her lips trembled slightly, but she met him still with that intolerable friendliness. “The less we say now, the—the better every way.”
All three stood at a loss, without speaking. There seemed no outlet to their distress. The fire fluttering in the stove mocked them with small, pleasant, household sounds.
Other sounds went unheeded. They heard a runner come pounding down the hill, saw him flash past the window, and might never have turned to look, had he not bounded in headlong at the door. Tony, his black hair tousled as by a gale, his face fire-red and shining with sweat, caught breath enough to laugh. The brown butt of a pistol stuck out from the flap of his shirt.
“Miles, old mate, I need you!” he panted. They had not met since the quarrel, yet here he stood, catching up their old relation as handily as though he had but stepped outdoors a moment ago. “Run up to Alward’s and fetch the boat, will you? I’m in a mess.” Catching sight of the two women, he nodded cheerfully. “Hallo! No time for shore manners. I’m in a mess. Come outside a jiffy.”
Miles followed him into the sunlight. Below the step Tony turned his back upon the door, and spoke in a rapid undertone.
“I must get across that river. Savee?” His breath still came hard, his face shone bright, like that of a man inspired by danger; and he watched the hill above, with little side glances, cool and shrewd. “Abe’s done it this time—killed a man. On the spree. Poor ass named Furfey. Finish!”
In the same breath his indifference vanished. He looked Miles square in the eye, full force.
“We’ve had our ins and outs,” he urged, “but you can’t think I’m up to that, now! Can you?”