Chapter XVI
Madelon, half an hour after Eugene had left, put on her cloak and hood, and went down the road to Lot Gordon's. “I want to see him a minute,” she said to Margaret Bean when the woman answered her knock, and went in with no more ado. Her face was white and stern in the shadow of her hood.
Margaret Bean recoiled a little when she looked at her. “He's up,” said she, backing before her, half as if she were afraid. “I guess you can walk right in.”
Madelon went into the sitting-room, and Lot's face confronted her at once, white and peaked, with hollow blue eyes lit, as of old, with a mocking intelligence of life.
He was sunken amid multifold wrappings in a great chair before the fire, with a great leathern-bound book on his knees. Beside him was a little stand with writing-paper thereon, and sealing-wax and a candle, a quill pen and an inkstand. All the room was lined with books, and was full of the musty smell of them.
Madelon went straight up to Lot and spoke out with no word of greeting. “I have sent your answer,” said she. “I will keep my promise, but have you thought well of what you do, Lot Gordon?”
Lot looked up at her and smiled, and the smile gave a curiously gentle look to his face, in spite of the sharp light in his eyes.
“The thought has been my meat and my drink, my medicine and my breath of life,” said he.
“If I were a man I would rather—take a snake to my breast than a woman who held me as one—”
“Two parallel lines can sooner meet than a woman know the heart of a man. What do I care so I hold you to mine?”