On the fourth day Rodney came. It was evening, and Cis was sitting with Nan under the light of her reading lamp, in her sitting room, when they heard Joe open the front door and tell someone to “walk right in.”
Before they had time to be startled by the realization that the step was not Tom’s, whom they had expected to see, Rodney Moore stood in the doorway.
Nan had seen him but once; however, she instantly recognized him and sprang up with an inarticulate sound that was almost a shocked cry. Cis sat still, staring up at him, her work fallen into her lap.
Rodney had changed; he looked older, worn, hard. Cis instantly felt great pity for him, but it was mingled with amazement that she had so lately found him all that was attractive in man. Something stood between them that was not the dying Myrtle. Cis had learned, had absorbed other standards of excellence than Rodney’s since she had parted from him; they asserted themselves without her volition, her consciousness of their presence.
“Cis!” said Rodney hoarsely, and Cis became aware that she had not spoken.
“Yes, Rodney. I am thankful that you have come,” Cis said.
She arose, went forward and gave Rodney an icy hand.
“I will telephone the Sisters and ask when you are to go to see Myrtle. She has sunk fast for two days; I found her quite low when I went there this afternoon, but they think that she is fighting to hold herself alive till you get here. Perhaps you must go there to-night.” Cis turned toward the telephone in the corner.
“For heaven’s sake, Cis, is this all that you have to say to me after—” Rodney’s angry grief stopped his utterance.
“That I am thankful that you have come? That I will help you at once to accomplish what you came for? What else is there to say, Rodney?” Cis asked quietly, and took down the telephone receiver.