Robert flushed.
“No, darling. I haven’t talked over business matters with father yet. He seems so busy lately. But as soon as I do we’ll talk it over.”
Love is a peculiar thing, Hamilton thought on the way home. He felt sorry for Margaret. He sympathized with her. Still he had no desire to fondle her. He had done so simply because he knew that she desired it. Was this love? Or was it something else?
Perhaps it was the highest form of love—the love springing from sympathy. And still he had postponed making the decision as to the date of their marriage. Well, by right he should talk to his father first about the business. Here a whole month had gone by during which he had simply loafed about the house and attended innumerable society affairs.
He decided that he must return the poem to McCall, or rather to Dorothy, with a little note explaining how he had found it. Margaret’s actions had given him a new insight into such things. He appreciated better how Dorothy would miss it. He could enclose the poem and the note in another letter to Levin, whose address he had. Levin would surely know where to reach her. Perhaps it would be better to wait until tomorrow, until after the operation. In any case Dorothy would be glad to get the poem back again, but he would know better tomorrow how to word the letter to her.
XXIII
Robert was inspecting the rose bushes with his mother late the next day when Mammy Chloe appeared at the door.
“The telegram company want Mistah Cap’n Robe’t Hamilton at de phone.”
“All right, just a minute.”
“Dat’s what I tell ’em.”