Harlan nearly burst, for the description was of Dorothy’s own particular sanctum.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Carr, very quietly; “I thought my husband would choose that room for you—dear Harlan is always so thoughtful! I will go up with you and take out a few of my things which have been unfortunately left there.”
Shortly afterward, Mr. Carr also climbed the stairs, his head swimming and his knees knocking together. Nervously, he turned over the few pages of his manuscript, then, hearing Dorothy coming, grabbed it and fled like a thief to the library on the first floor. In his panic he bolted the doors and windows of Uncle Ebeneezer’s former retreat. It was unnecessary, however, for no one came near him.
Throughout the long, sweet Spring afternoon, Miss St. Clair slept the dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion, Harlan worked fruitlessly at The Quest of Lady Elaine, and Dorothy busied herself about her household tasks, singing with forced cheerfulness whenever she was within hearing of the library.
“I’ll explain” thought Harlan, wretchedly. But after all what was there to explain, except that he had never seen Miss St. Clair before, never in all his life heard of her, never knew there was such a person, or had never met anybody who knew anything about her? “Besides,” he continued to himself “even then, what excuse have I got for stroking a strange woman’s hand and telling her I’m married?”
As the afternoon wore on, he decided that it would be policy to ignore the whole matter. It was an unfortunate misunderstanding all around, which could not be cleared away by speech, unless Dorothy should ask him about it—which he was very certain she would not do. “She ought to trust me,” he said to himself, resentfully, forgetting the absolute openness of thought and deed upon which a woman’s trust is founded. “I’ll read her the book to-night,” he thought, happily, “and that will please her.”
But it was fated not to. After dinner, which was much the same as luncheon, as far as conversation was concerned, Harlan invited Dorothy to come into the library.
She followed him, obediently enough, and he closed the door.
“Dearest,” he began, with a grin which was meant to be cheerful and was merely ridiculous, “I’ve begun the book—I actually have! I’ve been working on it all day. Just listen!”
Hurriedly possessing himself of the manuscript, he read it in an unnatural voice, down to the flower-like hands.