“I didn’t—”
“No—I know. But after a while—I knew you were trying to.... Then I knew that some day we should be here—together.”
The little alcove seemed to expand and become a wide place—Eldridge caught a glimpse of something fine and sincere—it passed like a breath over her face and was gone.
She lifted the face—“I have waited for it,” she said. “I have prayed for it every day, I think.” Her lips barely moved the words—“I did not want to feel alone here.”
He pushed back the curtain and beckoned to the waiter. “We will drink to the day,” he said.
Eldridge gave his order and looked on, smiling, while the waiter placed the slender-necked flask on the table and brought out the glasses and withdrew.
They lifted the glasses. “To the day—you left me,” he said. “And to the day I followed you,” he added slowly.
The glass paused in her hand. “That was the Symphony—?”
“Yes—And to your anniversary!”
She set down the glass. “I have not told you everything. It was not—my anniversary—made me come—to-day.”