She looked hesitatingly at a chair, then sat down; he resumed his seat on the edge of the stiff little chair.
She sat there waiting for him to speak; she still had that look of polite incredulity. She sat erect, her hands loosely clasped; she appeared perfectly poised, unperturbed, but when she made a movement for her handkerchief he saw that her hand was shaking.
"I know I've got my nerve to come here, Mrs. Williams," he blurted out.
She smiled faintly, and he saw that as she did so her lip twitched.
"I'm leaving for the West this afternoon. I'm going out there to live—to work." That he had said quite easily. It was a little more effort to add: "And I wanted to see you before I went."
She simply sat there waiting, but there was still that little twitching of her lip.
"Mrs. Williams," he began quietly, "I don't know whether or not you know that I've been with my sister Ruth this summer."
When she heard that name spoken there was a barely perceptible drawing back, as when something is flicked before one's eyes. Then her lips set more firmly. Ted looked down and smoothed out the soft hat he was holding, which he had clutched out of shape. Then he looked up and said, voice low: "Ruth has come to mean a great deal to me, Mrs. Williams."
And still she did not speak, but sat very straight and there were two small red spots now in her pale cheeks.
"And so," he murmured, after a moment, "that's why I came to you."