He had reached the gate, had swung it open noiselessly. The porch steps invited—the steps where he and Clara had often sat in the twilight, dreamily planning their life together. But for some reason he avoided them.
He had no desire to see any one but Clara just then, and instinct told him he would find her in the garden. So to the garden he turned, hungrily drinking in the fragrance of the flowers, the ache at his heart more poignant as each new and familiar object met his eye.
He heard voices and stopped still. One of them was Clara’s. She was laughing lightly at some pleasantry directed to her in a deep, masculine voice.
At the sound, Jim suddenly saw red. All the anxiety, the worry, the heartache of the last few weeks, took toll at once. With a grumble of wrath away down in his throat, he almost ran the remaining few feet that hid from him the two in the garden.
Clara was sitting on a rustic bench. She wore a pretty dress of rosy material that matched the color in her cheeks. She was looking up at a blond giant whose attitude expressed complete devotion. The giant was speaking in the deep, musical voice which had so infuriated Jim.
“Miss Matson, I’m going to Europe in a few days and I must know if I have any chance at all with you. It isn’t possible for me to go on this way——”
“Good afternoon,” said Jim, in a voice of suppressed emotion. “Sorry to intrude.”