"I understand," she said quietly, "that nothing has been done. It is not yet too late. The situation here is as it has been?"
"Yes; if you mean out there. They are waiting for me."
"I suppose Mr. Harwood is there, and Mr. Thatcher."
He blinked at the names and changed his position slightly.
"I dare say they are," he answered coldly.
"I thought it best to see you and talk to you; and I'm glad I knew before it was too late."
His eyes surveyed her slowly now from head to foot. Why was she glad she had known before it was too late? Her calmness made him uneasy, restless. It was a familiar characteristic of Morton Bassett that he met storm and stress stoically. He was prepared for scorn, recrimination, tears; but this dark-eyed girl, sitting before him in her gray walking-dress and plain hat with a bunch of scarlet flowers showing through the veil she had caught up over them, seemed in no danger of yielding to tears. Her voice fell in cool, even tones. He had said that he expected her, but she did not know what manner of meeting he had been counting on in his speculations. After a long look he passed his hand across his face.
"I hope you haven't thought—you didn't think I should let them bring you into it."
He spoke as though this were something due her; that she was entitled to his reassurance that the threatened cataclysm should not drag her down with him. When she made no reply he seemed to feel that he had not made himself clear, and he repeated, in other terms, that she need not be concerned for the outcome; that he meant to shield her.
"Yes; I supposed you would do that; I had expected that."