At last dawned the wished-for day on which Marian was to come. He had lain tossing awake all the night. Hours yet remained to be gotten through somehow before he could set out to walk to the station. After breakfast at nine, he set about tidying the studio, filling the vases with flowers, and setting “The Rebel” in a place of honor by the window. Then in the sitting room he cleared up the litter of pipes and books, and helped to decorate the table for luncheon.
At length he felt that he could linger no longer indoors, and started out to walk slowly along the cliffs toward Brighton. There was no stir in the air, the sea lay placid, the sun shone down as if with a promise of spring. He went slowly along, his heart light as a lad’s when going out to meet his first mistress. He knew how it would throb when he caught sight of her face. Would hers do so likewise? He knew how words would fail him, and how he would stammer out some stupid commonplace. Would it be so with her? He knew how anxiously he would await the train’s arrival, how eagerly he would scan the alighting passengers, seeking her. Would it be the same with her? Would she look on with indifference at one and another until her eyes met his? Then—would hers light up with the fire of love?
He reached the station half an hour before the train was due, and paced impatiently up and down through the throng, cursing the clock, the hands of which seemed to stand still. The train at last came in; out of one of the first compartments stepped Philip West, who caught hold of Maddison as he rushed by.
“All right, old chap, don’t be in such a hurry. I’ve had a fellow-passenger, who knows you and wants to speak to you.”
Maddison checked himself impatiently, yet afraid to show his anger at the interruption. He shook West’s out-held hand; and then looked, and there was Marian.
“I met Mrs. Squire at Victoria, and took charge of her as she was all alone. I got her heaps of magazines and papers, and books, and—she did nothing but—talk all the way down. I never knew before how near Brighton is to London.”
Marian laughed merrily, returning the close pressure of Maddison’s eager hand. How deliciously pretty she looked, he thought; how wildly aggravating that West should be there.
“Now I’m off; I’ve no luggage to worry about,” said West. “Good-by, Mrs. Squire, and thank you for a very pleasant journey. Good-by, Maddison, see you soon.”
West strode off through the bustling crowd. Then everything vanished for Maddison save Marian.
“My dear, my dear,” he said, taking her hand in his again. “My dear——”