He walked slowly, surprised at the keenness of the anxiety he was now enduring. Had Marian, already, after two brief meetings, become so much to him that the fear of any hurt having come to her filled him with rage? How clearly he conjured up his last sight of her, as she stood back to the fire, whose light glinted through her hair. How graceful and gracious she had looked. Yes, he feared love unfulfilled, not love unrequited.
The gate creaked dismally as he pushed it open. He walked quickly up the gravel path, looking sharply up at the parlor window, through which in the dusk he could see the firelight dancing on the ceiling.
“Mrs. Squire was not in. Would he wait?” said the little maid.
Curiously the chance that she might not be in had not occurred to him, and he drew his breath sharply at the news.
“Is she likely to be in soon?”
“I dunno—shall I ask master?”
He told her not to trouble and turned away. He could not run the risk of having to face Squire, bearing in mind the errand on which he had come.
Apparently nothing unusual had occurred. Why had she not kept her appointment? Or, if unable to do so, why had she not written or telegraphed to him? Had it meant so little to her that she had forgotten it?
The best thing for him to do was to put the matter on one side, to wait awhile, to watch. Perhaps she had written and the letter had been delayed.
He walked some little distance before he could obtain a cab, and so, home.