Fanny stood stock-still in the middle of the
floor, staring at it. There was no fire in the parlor. She would be
forced to bring him out to the kitchen. She thought of the wide,
luxuriously furnished rooms of Bolton house and unconsciously her
face hardened. She might pretend she did not hear the bell. She might
allow him to go away, thinking none of the family were at home. She
pictured him, standing there on the doorstep facing the closed door;
and a perverse spirit held her silent, while the clock ticked
resoundingly. Then all at once with a smothered cry she hurried
through the hall, letting the door fall to behind her with a loud
slam.
He was waiting patiently on the doorstep, as she had pictured him;
and before a single word had passed between them she knew that the
stone had been rolled away. His eyes met hers, not indeed with the
old look, but with another, incomprehensible, yet wonderfully
soul-satisfying.
"I wanted to tell you about it, before it came to you from the
outside," he said, when they had settled themselves in the warm,
silent kitchen.
His words startled Fanny. Was he going to tell her of his approaching
marriage to Lydia? Her color faded, and a look of almost piteous
resignation drooped the corners of her mouth. She strove to collect
her scattered wits, to frame words of congratulation with which to
meet the dreaded avowal.
He appeared in no hurry to begin; but bent forward, his eyes upon her
changing face.
"Perhaps you know, already," he reflected.
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