“‘Now then, George, promise me this–they’re not to blame. John Kollander isn’t to blame. It was funny; Kyle Perry saw him as I did, and Kyle–’ he almost laughed, Laura.
“‘Kyle,’ he repeated, ‘tried to yell at old John, but got so excited stuttering, he couldn’t! I’m sure the fellows didn’t intend–’ he was getting weak; ‘this,’ he said.
“‘Promise me and make–others; you won’t tell. I know father–he won’t. They’re not–it’s–society. Just that,’ 608he said. ‘This was society!’ He had to stop. I felt his hand squeeze. ‘I’m–so–happy,’ he said one word at a time, gripping my hand tighter and tighter till it ached.” Brotherton put out his great hand, and looked at it impersonally, as one introducing a stranger for witness. Then Brotherton lifted his eyes to Laura’s and took up his story:
“‘That’s hers,’ he said; ‘the letter,’ and then ‘my messages–happy.’”
The woman pressed her letter to her lips and looked at the white door. She rose and, holding her letter to her bosom, closed her eyes and stood with a hand on the knob. She dropped her hand and turned from the white door. The dawn was graying in the ugly street. But on the clouds the glow of sunrise blushed in promise. She walked slowly toward the street. She gazed for a moment at the glorious sky of dawn.
When her eyes met her friend’s, she cried:
“Give me your hand–that hand!”
She seized it, gazed hungrily at it a second, then kissed it passionately. She looked back at the white door, and shook with sobs as she cried:
“Oh, you don’t think he’s there–there in the night–behind the door? We know–oh, we do know he’s out here–out here in the dawn.”