The only fault I could lay to his door was that he didn't have any eyes. Not for us. He was looking every-which-way, and I knew for who. So as soon as I could, I slips up to him and I says merely:
"This way."
He was right there with me, in a second. I took him up the stairs, and tapped at my front chamber door.
She was setting in there on her couch, red as a red rose this time. And when she see who was with me, she looked more so than ever. But she spoke gentle and self-possessed, as women can that's been trained that way all their days.
"How do you do?" says she, and gave him her hand, stranger-cool.
That man—he pays no more attention to me than if I hadn't been there. He just naturally walked across the room, put his hands on her shoulders, looked deep into her eyes for long enough to read what she couldn't help being there, and then he took her in his arms.
I slipped out and pulled the door to. And in the hall I met from six to seven folks coming up to take their things off, and heading straight for the front chamber. I stood myself up in front of the door.
"Walk right into my room," says I—though I knew full well that it looked like Bedlam, and that I was letting good housekeepers in to see it. And so they done. And, more heads appearing on the stairs about then, I see that what I had to do was to stand where I was—if they were to have their Great Five Minutes in peace.
Could anybody have helped doing that? And could anybody have helped hearing that little murmur that came to me from that room?
"Dearest," he said, "how could you—how could you do like this? I've looked everywhere—"