“She hasn’t accepted Van Ness yet?”
Laura Duffield shook her head.
Tom thought swiftly.
“Where is Marcia? Is she in? Tell her I am here?”
The mother arose and called the girl. Marcia came to the door, stood silent.
“Hello, Marcia. I came to see you, this evening. Not your Mamma.” He believed it. He wanted to be with her—all else was a pretext.
“Yes: and it’s lucky too,” Mrs. Duffield bustled to her desk. “I have a thousand letters to answer. Do be dears, and leave me alone.”
She was settled and her back was on them. She was looking better. Such confidence she had in Tom!
He followed Marcia. She went to the opposite corner of her room: near her cheval glass. She stood there. Tom closed the door, let his weight lean upon it, then seated himself in a broad arm-chair. Her whiteness was taut: her black hair and eyes were hot. A tremble swift and faint sang through her. She found she could not stop it. She moved and took up an ivory brush, she strove to let her trembling flow from her two hands to it. It was a very long time since Tom and she were alone.
“Marcia, please sit down.”