"Helen—may I look through the suite?" he eagerly questioned, but with evident embarrassment. "May I see Dorothy's room? I—I would like to know how you two have been living; it will be something to—to remember."
Helen's head sank wearily back against her chair. She was white to her lips from her efforts at self-control.
"I don't care—go where you like," she breathed, in a scarcely audible voice.
The man passed noiselessly into the library, where he was no less observant of what it contained than he had been in the parlor. Presently he moved out into the hall, and on to a chamber which he realized at a glance must be Helen's. Leading from it was another and smaller one, and this, he was sure, as he entered it, had been Dorothy's.
It was the daintiest room imaginable. Excepting the bed, which was of brass, the furniture was all of white enamel and willow ware in graceful designs. Spotless draperies of muslin over white shades hung at the windows, and were slightly looped with broad blue ribbons. A beautiful blue-and-white rug lay upon the light hardwood floor, and the fireplace was also tiled in the same colors.
Here John Hungerford lingered for a long time, moving silently, and treading softly, as if he felt himself intruding upon some sacred place. He paused before each piece of furniture, noting every detail in outline and upholstery. Not an article of the frosted-silver toilet set upon the pretty dresser escaped his notice; he even noted her class pin and two small baby pins which he remembered seeing Dorothy wear as a child, that were stuck into the blue-and-white satin pin-cushion under the looking-glass. He examined all her books, the pictures on the walls, and studied the photographs of her friends and schoolmates, of which she had many.
Now and then he would softly touch and caress a vase or an ornament with reverent, trembling fingers. A little workbasket, made of sweet grass, and sending its delicate perfume to his nostrils, stood upon a table, and some great tears splashed into it as he bent over it and noted a small silver thimble lying among its other implements. When he came to the pretty brass bed, with its dainty lace spread and shams, he seemed almost overcome. His head sank heavily upon his breast, and, reaching out a trembling hand, he gently patted one of the pillows, a great sob heaving his chest and shaking his entire frame as he did so. Then, with a gesture of despair that seemed also to imply the renunciation of some previous purpose, he turned abruptly away, and went back to a group of photographs fastened to the wall, where he had noticed a likeness of Dorothy. It was a class picture that had been taken of her in her graduating dress, just before leaving Vassar.
The man studied it intently, his hungry, yearning eyes devouring its every detail. At last, with a stealthy glance over his shoulder, he reached up, took it down, pressed it passionately to his lips; then, hastily concealing it inside his coat, he left the room.
He merely glanced into the pretty dining room beyond, without attempting to go farther, after which he slowly retraced his steps through the hall to the reception room, and paused in the doorway leading to the parlor, where Helen was still sitting.
"I am going now, Helen," he observed, in a spiritless tone. "Thank you for letting me look around."