“Oh, how do you do! How have you been?”
Betty said, after too long a pause, glancing up momentarily at Mr. Boatwright:
“Mr. Brachey was on the steamer.”
It was odd, that little situation. It might so easily have escaped being a situation, had not their own turbulent hearts made it so. But now, of course, neither could explain why they hadn't spoke before he went into the study. And little, distrait Mr. Boatwright was wide-eyed.
The situation passed from mildly bad to a little worse. Betty went on up the stairs; and Brachey went down.
The casual parting came upon Brachey like a tragedy. It was unthinkable. Something personal he must say. On the morrow it might be worse, with a whole household crowding about. It was a question if he could face her at all, that way. He got to the bottom step; then, with an apparently offhand, “I beg your pardon!” brushed past the now openly astonished Boatwright and bolted back up the stairs.
Betty moved a little way along the upper hall; hesitated; glanced back.
He spoke, low, in her ear. “I must see you!”
Her head inclined a little.
“Once! I must see you once. I can't leave it this way. Then I will go. To-morrow—at tiffin—if we can't talk together—you must give me some word. A note, perhaps, telling me how I can see you alone. There is one thing I must tell you.”