He had been the plunger who seemed strongest 252 when he was weakest, and these enduring hills spoke their message of steadfastness to him as he stood surrounded by their lofty crests of spruce and pine.
Then he had reached the door and flung it open and Glory was in his arms, but unaccountably she had burst into a tempest of tears.
Before he had had time to speak of the necessity that called him East she was telling of the visit of Martin Harrison and his indignant departure.
Despite his all-consuming absorption of a moment before, Spurrier drew away, chilled by that announcement, and Glory read in his eyes a momentary agony of apprehension.
“In God’s name,” he demanded in a numbed voice, “why didn’t you write me about that?”
“He said,” responded the wife simply, “that he would write to you at Frankfort. I thought you knew.”
“But I should have thought you’d have spoken of his coming and going—like that.”
Her head came up with a brief little flash of hurt pride.
“You hadn’t ever told him—about me,” she said, though without accusation. “I didn’t want to talk to you about it until you were ready to suggest it. It might have seemed—disloyal.”
Spurrier again braced his shoulders. After a moment he took her in his arms.