He took the letter home with him and placed it in a locked drawer of his desk, along with a hard and shrunken doughnut, tied with a bow of Christmas ribbon, which had once helped to adorn the Christmas tree they had trimmed together. There were other things in the drawer; a postcard photograph, rather blurred, of Lily in the doorway of her little hut, smiling; and the cigar box which had been her cash register at the camp.
He stood for some time looking down at the post card; it did not seem possible that in the few months since those wonderful days, life could have been so cruel to them both. Lily married, and he himself—
Ellen came up when he was tying his tie. She stood behind him, watching him in the mirror.
“I don't know what you've done to your hair, Willy,” she said; “it certainly looks queer.”
“It usually looks queer, so why worry, heart of my heart?” But he turned and put an arm around her shoulders. “What would the world be without women like you, Ellen?” he said gravely.
“I haven't done anything but my duty,” Ellen said, in her prim voice. “Listen, Willy. I saw Edith again to-day, and she told me to do something.”
“To go home and take a rest? That's what you need.”
“No. She wants me to tear up that marriage license.”
He said nothing for a moment. “I'll have to see her first.”
“She said it wouldn't be any good, Willy. She's made up her mind.” She watched him anxiously. “You're not going to be foolish, are you? She says there's no need now, and she's right.”