Her smile was sunshine itself. "With all my heart." She put out her hand. He took it and held it.
And he dropped it and stood looking strangely at his own hand. For it was tingling deliciously. And at her touch and the look that went with it his heart had burst into a sudden mad singing—a song not of exile or thanksgiving, but of a longing to which he might never give tongue.
The hand fell slowly to his side. With an effort he lifted his glance to her questioning, startled eyes. He tried to make his voice easy and natural, but it was heavy and stiff.
"I—I congratulate you. I hope—I know—to-day is only the beginning of many fine things for you."
Then he turned quickly and left her.
In his room, when the first daze had cleared a little, he set himself sternly to face this new thing. For he knew now why the old sense of loss—of the dream woman shrunk to a wife to whom love was only a bauble to be worn in fair weather—and why the failure of love had ceased to trouble, why Shirley had drifted so quickly, so easily into the shadowy background of his life. He saw what had helped him to win his new brave philosophy, had builded the walls of his sanctuary. His poor sanctuary! What refuge could it offer now? Another house of his building lay about him, a grim hopeless ruin.
"Oh, Esther!" he whispered to the girl he might not have. "Oh, Esther!"
He sat there, trying to see what he must do. Darkness fell. But he wanted no light. He did not stir until late in the evening chords from the piano reached him.
He rose and opened the door and a voice, athrob with pain, floated up to him.
"By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept. . . ."