Philip escaped into the open air. Soon he heard Anson coming, waited until he caught up, and the two brothers, without a word, set off for the station very much as though they were trying to run away from each other, but had foolishly elected to go in the same direction while about it.
Their destination was reached before either had framed a speech diplomatic enough for the occasion.
Anson went to ascertain how much time he had and returned almost immediately to say that he had ten minutes left.
“But,” he added, “you needn't wait on my account.”
“I'll see you off. I told mother I would.”
“Of course—if you like. I thought you might want to go home.”
They fell to pacing back and forth across the platform, still apparently trying to get away from each other. Neither spoke, and it was only when the train rushed in with a trailing echo of sound from out the darkness, that Anson found courage to say hurriedly from the door of his car:
“Mother told you, didn't she, that I would pay up all I have had from you? I intend to and shall, but I can't do it at once.” The whistle of the engine broke in upon him. “I'll do it sure, Philip, I won't forget.”
“There is no haste,” his brother answered. “Don't sacrifice yourself because of me.”
He extended his hand. “Good-by and good luck to you.”