His throat was dry. He was giddy and hot about the head. He wondered, miserably, if he had a fever. Very likely.
There were lights here, too; downstairs.
Some one calling, perhaps—that friend of James B. Merchant's.
Henry gritted his teeth.
It was too late to call. Yet he had had to come, had been drawn irresistibly to the spot.
What mattered it after all, who might be calling. He told himself that his life was to be, hereafter, one of sorrow, of frustration. He must be dignified about it. He must make it a life worthy of his love and his great sacrifice.
The front door opened.
A man and a woman came down the steps. An elderly couple. He stood very still, behind a tree, while they walked past him.
A sign of uncontrollable relief escaped him. It was something. Cicely had at last spared him a stab.
Lights went out in the front room. Lights came on upstairs.