“Go on!” said he. “It’s a very good occupation for you, sitting up to the old gent. I’ll give you a chance by staying away, to-night. Make a hit with grandpa, Colin, make a hit with grandpa!”
“And you make a hit with yourself—get rid of your foolish theory, and come down to simple facts,” Macloud retorted, and he went out.
“Get rid of your foolish theory,” Croyden soliloquized. “Well, maybe—but is it foolish, that’s the question? I’m poor, once more—I’ve not enough even for Elaine Cavendish’s husband—there’s the rub! she won’t be Geoffrey Croyden’s wife, it’s I who will be Elaine Cavendish’s husband. ‘Elaine Cavendish and her husband dine with us to-night!’—‘Elaine Cavendish and her husband were at the horse show!’ ‘Elaine Cavendish and her husband were here!—or there!—or thus and so!’”
He could not endure it. It would be too belittling, too disparaging of self-respect.—Elaine 327 Cavendish’s husband!—Elaine Cavendish’s husband! Might he out-grow it—be known for himself? He glanced up at the portrait of the gallant soldier of a lost cause, with the high-bred face and noble bearing.
“You were a brave man, Colonel Duval!” he said. “What would you have done?”
He took out a cigar, lit it very deliberately, and fell to thinking.... Presently, worn out by fatigue and anxiety, he dozed....
And as he dozed, the street door opened softly, a light step crossed the hall, and Elaine Cavendish stood in the doorway.
She was clad in black velvet, trimmed in sable. Her head was bare. A blue cloak was thrown, with careless grace, about her gleaming shoulders. One slender hand lifted the gown from before her feet. She saw the sleeping man and paused, and a smile of infinite tenderness passed across her face.
A moment she hesitated, and at the thought, a faint blush suffused her face. Then she glided softly over, bent and kissed him on the lips.