They saw him. No word passed then; there was nothing to say. She moved slowly out of the room by another door, the men, both as if in a daze, following her with their eyes. When her footsteps had died away, they looked at each other helplessly.
"David!" Jonathan's voice broke like a boy's. "David! What have you done?"
After a little that cry reached David's understanding. "I never knew—" He turned away from the stricken accusing face.
He heard Jonathan start away at last, then turn and come toward him. A letter was laid on the desk.
"I was bringing this to you," said Jonathan's choking voice. And again, "David! David!"
That time Jonathan did not return.
Mechanically David took up and opened the letter. He had to read it twice before he grasped its import.
"The committee of St. Mark's has selected your plans. . . . We shall want you to supervise the work . . . usual terms . . . congratulations."
The letter fluttered from his hands to the floor, St. Mark's from his mind.
So he was not to have even the consolation of knowing that no one but himself had been hurt. It would be on his soul that he had hurt her, too—cruelly, hopelessly hurt her. And he could not help her, only run away and leave her to face it alone. And Jonathan, his kind friend—the meaning of the grief on that homely face was plain.