Stevens stood in the door at attention, looking neither to the right nor to the left, but straight over the heads of the women. He drew a long intake of breath, then he spoke the name:—
"Mr. Challoner."
And hardly were the words out of his mouth than he was thrust aside, and there stood in his place a spare, gaunt, tottering figure—a man dishevelled, soiled, exhausted—James Lawrence Challoner had come home!
At the sound of the name the young wife's face turned pale, and for a moment words failed her. Then all of a sudden she sprang to her feet and rushed to him, crying in an ecstasy of joy:—
"Laurie, Laurie, you've come home to me at last!" And throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed him many times, laughing hysterically and crying the while: "You've come back to me!" And once more the freshness of youth, joy and hope were in her voice.
But Challoner, still standing just within the entrance of the room, did not heed her; he cast her off with a frantic sweep of the arm.
"Keep away—keep away from me!" he cried. "I'm tired, dog-tired—I've got to sleep, sleep."
Painful as was the scene, Shirley was keenly alive to what his presence there might mean.
"Stevens," she called, pointing to a window, "pull that curtain down. I pulled it up after they went; pull it down."
Challoner now turned upon her.