Westover replied in the same octave: “Yes; I saw him going a good while ago.”
“Oh!” said the girl. “Then I think my aunt and I had better go, too.”
Still she did not go, and there was an interval in which she had the air of vaguely waiting. To Westover's vision, the young people still passing to and from the ballroom were like the painted figures of a picture quickened with sudden animation. There were scarcely any elders to be seen now, except the chaperons, who sat in their places with iron fortitude; Westover realized that he was the only man of his age left. He felt that the lights ought to have grown dim, but the place was as brilliant as ever. A window had been opened somewhere, and the cold breath of the night was drawing through the heated rooms.
He was content to have Bessie stay on, though he was almost dropping with sleep, for he was afraid that if she went at once, the carriage might not have got back, and the whole affair must somehow be given away; at last, if she were waiting, she decided to wait no longer, and then Westover did not know how to keep her. He saw her rise and stoop over her aunt, putting her mouth to the elder lady's ear, and he heard her saying, “I am going home, Aunt Louisa.” She turned sweetly to him. “Won't you let us set you down, Mr. Westover?”
“Why, thank you, I believe I prefer walking. But do let me have your carriage called,” and again he hurried himself into his overcoat and hat, and ran down-stairs, and the barker a third time sent forth his lamentable cries in summons of Miss Lynde's carriage.
While he stood on the curb-stone eagerly peering up and down the street, he heard, without being able either to enjoy or resent it, one of the policemen say across him to the other, “Miss lynde seems to be doin' a livery-stable business to-night.”
Almost at the moment a carriage drove up, and he recognized Miss Lynde's coachman, who recognized him.
“Just got back, sor,” he whispered, and a minute later Bessie came daintily out over the carpeted way with her aunt.
“How good of you!” she said, and “Good-night, Mr. Westover,” said Miss Lynde, with an implication in her voice that virtue was peculiarly its own reward for those who performed any good office for her or hers.
Westover shut them in, the carriage rolled off, and he started on his homeward walk with a long sigh of relief.