Quietly the girl arose also, stood so very still.
“Yes,” she said. “He’s been back a week. He’s working in the big drug-store on the corner, Shaw’s place, in the laboratory.”
“That’s all, then. I thought perhaps you didn’t know.”
For an instant the girl was silent; she looked her companion full in the face.
“He called the afternoon he came. He was almost—pitiable. Father came home finally.”
Their eyes held. Not three feet separate they stood there; but neither stirred.
“Mr. Roberts.”
In silence the man put on top-coat and gloves; not hastily, nor yet lingeringly. Equally naturally he picked up his hat.
“December the sixth,” he said. “One whole year. To-morrow will be the seventh—and business—battle, again.” For the first time he dallied, the big soft felt hat turning absently in his hand. “Somehow I’d hoped a lot for the sixth, planned a lot—and now it’s past.” His eyes shifted, fastened elsewhere compellingly.