Alone Armstrong threw hat and topcoat into a chair almost irritably; walking over to the grate, he stood gazing down into the blaze absently. For some reason it called to mind another grate and another occasion when he had looked absently therein; and almost unconsciously he caught himself glancing at the shelf above, half expecting to catch the play of light from a red decanter thereon. With the shrug of one who banishes an unpleasant memory he turned away. He was still standing, however, when the girl returned.
“Is there any way I can assist, with your father?” he asked perfunctorily.
“No, thank you. He’s asleep. It’s mental, the trouble with him, more than anything else.” She sat down and indicated a place opposite. “I’m so glad Harry Randall escaped in time.”
“And I as well?”
“Yes, and you, assuredly.”
Armstrong waited; but she said no more, and with an odd diffidence he cleared his throat unnecessarily.
“It’s sacrilege, though, for us to talk commonplaces to-night,” he anticipated hastily. “There’s 309 too much else to discuss, and to-day has meant too much. Do you realize what this day really means for both of us, Elice?”
The long fingers lay in the girl’s lap, quite still.
“Perhaps. But tell me if you wish.”
Again the fantastic diffidence held Armstrong in its grip; and again he freed himself with an effort.