For a moment her suspicions were sickening. Suppose he had romanced about his workshop and his room? Supposed he lived somewhere in the squalid slums of the lower East Side and his people, after all, were alive? Perhaps a drunken father and a coarse, brutal mother—and sisters——
She stopped with a frown and clenched her fists.
She would ask Jim to show her his workshop. That would be enough. If he had told her the truth about that she would make up to him in tender abandonment of utter trust for every suspicion she harbored.
The car was standing in front of her door. He waved for her to come down.
“Jump right in!” he called gayly. “I've got an extra rubber blanket for you.”
“In the storm, Jim?” she faltered.
“Surest thing you know. It's great to fly through a storm. You can just ride on its wings. Throw on your raincoat and come on quick! I'm going to run down to the Beach. Who's afraid of an old storm with this thing under us?”
Her heart gave a bound. Her longing had reached her lover and brought him through the storm to do her bidding. It was wonderful—this oneness of soul and body.
She was happy again—supremely, divinely happy. The man by her side knew and understood. She knew and understood. She loved this daring spirit that rose to the wind—this iron will that brooked no interference with his plans, even from Nature, when it crossed his love.
The sting of the raindrops against her cheek was exhilarating. The car glided over the swimming roadway like a great gray gull skimming the beach at low tide. Her soul rose. The sun of a perfect faith and love was shining now behind the clouds.