We are going to hear
from this, both of us. And that reminds me; I've got news for you. They
are going to begin repairs on the theatre about the middle of March, and
we are to run over to New York for six weeks. Bennett told me yesterday
that it was decided."
Hilda looked up delightedly at the tall gray figure beside her. He
was the only thing she could see, for they were moving through a dense
opaqueness, as if they were walking at the bottom of the ocean.
"Oh, Mac, how glad I am! And they love your things over there, don't
they?"
"Shall you be glad for--any other reason, Hilda?"
MacConnell put his hand in front of her to ward off some dark object. It
proved to be only a lamp-post, and they beat in farther from the edge of
the pavement.
"What do you mean, Mac?" Hilda asked nervously.
"I was just thinking there might be people over there you'd be glad to
see," he brought out awkwardly. Hilda said nothing, and as they walked
on MacConnell spoke again, apologetically: "I hope you don't mind my
knowing about it, Hilda. Don't stiffen up like that. No one else knows,
and I didn't try to find out anything. I felt it, even before I knew who
he was. I knew there was somebody, and that it wasn't I."
They crossed Oxford Street in silence, feeling their way. The busses had
stopped running and the cab-drivers were leading their horses. When
they reached the other side, MacConnell said suddenly, "I hope you are
happy."
"Terribly, dangerously happy, Mac,"--Hilda spoke quietly, pressing the
rough sleeve of his greatcoat with her gloved hand.
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