“It was everything! It was wonderful!” cried the girl, and held out her slender hands to him.
As they clasped warmly upon his, Average Jones’ reason lost its balance. He forgot that he was in that house on an equivocal footing; he forgot that he had exposed and disgraced Sylvia Graham’s near relative; he forgot that this was but his third meeting with Sylvia Graham herself; he forgot everything except that the sum total of all that was sweetest and finest and most desirable in womanhood stood warm and vivid before him; and, bending over the little, clinging hands, he pressed his lips to them. Only for a moment. The hands slipped from his. There was a quick, frightened gasp, and the girl’s face, all aflush with a new, sweet fearfulness and wondering confusion, vanished behind a ponderous swinging door.
The young man’s knees shook a little as he walked forward and put his lips close to the lintel.
“Sylvia.”
There was a faint rustle from within.
“I’m sorry. I mean, I’m glad. Gladder than of anything I’ve ever done in my life.”
Silence from within.
“If I’ve frightened you, forgive me. I couldn’t help it. It was stronger than I. This isn’t the place where I can tell you. Sylvia, I’m going now.”
No answer.
“The work is done,” he continued. “You won’t need me any more.” Did he hear, from within, a faint indrawn breath? “Not for any help that I can give. But I—I shall need you always, and long for you. Listen, there mustn’t be any misunderstanding about this, dear. If you send for me, it must be because you want me; knowing that, when I come, I shall come for you. Good-by, dear.”