“Now,” said Doane quietly, “sit down.” And he read the cablegram. After some quiet thought he said, “Have you come to ask for Betty?”
The directness of this question made speech, to Brachey, even more nearly impossible than before. He bowed his head.
Doane had dropped into the little chair by the little table. He sat, now, thinking and absently weighing the cablegram in one hand. Finally, reaching a conclusion, he rose again.
“The best way, I think, will be to settle this thing now.” He appeared to be speaking as much to himself as to his caller. “I'll get Betty. You won't mind waiting? They don't have call bells in this house.” And he returned the cablegram and went out of the room, leaving the door ajar behind him.
Brachey stepped over to the window, thinking he might see Betty when she came, but it gave on an inner court. He stared out at the gray tiling. The moment was, to him, terrible. He stood on the threshold of that strange region of the spirit that is called happiness. The door, always before closed to him (except the one previous experience when it proved but an entry into bitterness and desolation) had opened, here at the last, amazingly, at his touch. And he was afraid to look.
It seemed an hour later when footsteps sounded outside, and the outer door opened. Then they came in, father and daughter.
Betty, rather white, stood hesitant, looking from one to the other. Doane placed a gently protecting arm about her slim shoulders.
“I haven't told her,” he said. “That is for you to do. I want you both to wait while I look for the others.”
He was gone. Betty came slowly forward. Brachey handed her the cablegram.
“I—I can't read it,” she said, with a tremulous little laugh. “John—I'm crying!”