"Sorry, gentlemen," he said, trying to smile bravely. "Bad news from home. We'll have to continue this discussion later."
"You can just make the 10:10 train," said one of the engineers, sympathetically. "Hard lines, old man."
Granville's lone, asthmatic taxi coughed up Mr. Pottle at the door of his house; it was dark; he did not dare look at the door-knob. His trembling hand twisted the key in the lock.
"Who's that?" called a faint voice. It was Blossom's. He thanked God she was still alive.
He was in her room in an instant, and had switched on the light. She lay in bed, her face, once rosy, now pale; her eyes, once placid, now red-lidded and tear-swollen. He bent over her with tremulous anxiety.
"Honey, what's happened? Tell your Ambrose."
She raised herself feebly in bed. He thanked God she could move.
"Oh, it's too awful," she said with a sob. "Too dreadful for words."
"What? Oh, what? Tell me, Blossom dearest. Tell me. I'll be brave, little woman. I'll try to bear it." He pressed her fevered hands in his.
"I can hardly believe it," she sobbed. "I c-can hardly believe it."