He had done it for Alexander when they were
students together in Paris.
Sunday was a cold, raw day and a fine rain fell continuously. When
Alexander came back from dinner he put more wood on his fire, made
himself comfortable, and settled down at his desk, where he began
checking over estimate sheets. It was after nine o'clock and he was
lighting a second pipe, when he thought he heard a sound at his door.
He started and listened, holding the burning match in his hand; again
he heard the same sound, like a firm, light tap. He rose and crossed the
room quickly. When he threw open the door he recognized the figure that
shrank back into the bare, dimly lit hallway. He stood for a moment in
awkward constraint, his pipe in his hand.
"Come in," he said to Hilda at last, and closed the door behind her. He
pointed to a chair by the fire and went back to his worktable. "Won't
you sit down?"
He was standing behind the table, turning over a pile of blueprints
nervously. The yellow light from the student's lamp fell on his hands
and the purple sleeves of his velvet smoking-jacket, but his flushed
face and big, hard head were in the shadow. There was something about
him that made Hilda wish herself at her hotel again, in the street
below, anywhere but where she was.
"Of course I know, Bartley," she said at last, "that after this you
won't owe me the least consideration. But we sail on Tuesday. I saw that
interview in the paper yesterday, telling where you were, and I thought
I had to see you.
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