Mr. Cobden didn’t take out his own car that night. Perhaps he didn’t feel as if he could keep his mind on getting himself downtown. He sat back in the cushions of his mother’s limousine; and Conrad, whose career as Cobden coachman had changed to Cobden chauffeur nearly twenty years ago, handled the big box like a hearse.
“Sit tight, Dicky,” he breathed, and never once urged Conrad forward. In fact, Dicky didn’t speak, until it became necessary to show the way a little, for Harrow Street is tricky to find from Washington Square.
“Don’t wait—yes, you’d better wait, Conrad,” he called, crossing the walk to the door.
The outer door was unlatched. He hurried up one flight. The same curtain, the white light.
“Pidge——”
She came forth from the inner room. She halted a few feet from him, and he saw her searching, imploring look. His shoulders straightened, his hands dropped to his side. The finer elements of his understanding sensed the great need of a woman, which his brain did not actually register. To answer her need in action, however, was instantly more dominant within him than his thirst for herself.
She came a step nearer. Light was filling her eyes—the shining of an almost incredible hope.
“Oh, Dicky, you can! I believe you can!”
“Yes?”
She was nearer.