Satisfied that he was worthy of her confidence, she told him briefly what had occurred.
“And now what are you going to do?” she asked, smiling.
“Do? I'll go on my knees. I'll grovel at his feet. I'll ask him to make me a door-mat. I'll do any mortal thing Aline tells me.”
“Well, go now and do your penance and be happy,” Connie said, holding out her hand.
“I don't know how I can thank you, Mrs. Deering,” he cried. “You are the most gracious woman that ever lived!”
A few moments later an impassioned youth was speeding in a hansom cab to Friary Grove. But Connie, with the memory of his clear-cut, radiant young face haunting her, sighed. Chance decreed that the very moment should bring her a letter from Jimmie, written that morning, full of his wonder and gratitude. She sighed again, pathetically, foolishly, unreasonably feeling left out in the cold.
“I wonder whether it would do me good to cry,” she said, half aloud. But the footman entering with the announcement that the carriage which was to take her to her dressmaker was at the door, settled the question. She had to content herself with sighs.
Tony Merewether did not go on his knees, as Aline had ordained; but he made his apology in so frank and manly a way that Jimmie forgave him at once. Besides, said he, what had he to forgive?
“I feel like Didymus,” said Tony.
Jimmie laughed as he clapped him on the shoulder and pushed him out of the studio.