As Dick Lewis went up the steps, the front door opened and old Jaffray’s moved face showed against the dark of the hall. Lewis noticed, with his new and wondering appreciation for the beauty of common things, that it was finely carved as ivory against the shadow. Then, he was shaking the old man’s hand.
“I’m glad to see you, Mr. Lewis. Glad from my ’eart, sir, if you’ll allow me. We were all very glad to hear of your safety. Miss Guida, she’s waiting for you. . . Yes, in the library, sir.”
“Thank you, Jaffray.”
He went to the familiar door and opened it, and the woman who had been sitting for an hour listening for his step and the sound of the opening door, rose and went forward swiftly to meet him. She said only “Dick!” Then, as they clasped hands: “I need not tell you our joy and relief when we heard.”
“Thank you, Guida. You had my letter?”
“Yes, I kept it to myself—greedy me! The others don’t know you’re here yet. And you’ve come—?”
“Just on my way back. To say good-bye.”
She smiled, summoning that light speech so many use for a shield and buckler. “Don’t! No good-byes between friends! I shall say ‘Au ’voir’ as usual.”
But he did not respond to her mood. He said gently, “I think good-bye—and all it stands for—is a good thing to say between friends.” And instantly something alert and frightened stood up in the woman’s soul, crying “He’s changed, he’s different. Something’s happened. This is not Dick. . .”
She met his eyes, resting on her with a sort of abstract delight. From her pale crinkled hair to her slender feet, she was good for eyes to rest on; many eyes had told her so. But Dick Lewis seemed for the first time to see her at a very far distance; and the dumb fear at her heart spread to her body, so that she pressed her hands hard together to prevent them shaking.