“Gordon!” she cried, coming swiftly forward. She held out both hands.
He did not speak. If he was surprised at beholding her in a nurse’s outfit, he gave no sign.
War had taken its toll from Gordon. It seemed as though his fine patrician mold had been cast into the Great Furnace and when the dross had been melted away he was pure metal but hardened somehow. He was thin; he looked as though he had suffered much.
“I’m sorry to intrude to-night, Madge. But I couldn’t help it. Forgive me! Under the circumstances I had to come!”
“Oh, I’m so glad to see you! And it’s perfectly all right!”
He grasped her outstretched hand and bent above it. It was very neatly done, very much the appropriate thing—for Gordon.
It was not until he had been called to meet Nathan and Madelaine saw his peculiar gait in crossing the room that she knew he had not returned as he went away. Gordon had lost his left leg at the knee in the Argonne, but aside from a stiffness in his stride, no one might suspect.
“I’ve intruded to-night because I’m going to Chicago and thence out to Kansas at once, Madge. And I wanted to offer my best wishes. I’m glad, Madge—glad—that you—are very happy!”
“Gordon! You know?”
“Aunt Gracia told me. I was discharged from the hospital in January. Aunt Grace allowed me to read certain portions of your letters about—him! It couldn’t be, Madge—you and I. And in fairness to us both, I ought to add that I felt it the night I went away. At least I felt I couldn’t take you—with clean hands.”