"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. That's all. Good-night; I'm going now."
She turned and her hand closed on the door-knob.
Alexander hurried toward her and took
her gently by the arm. "Sit down, Hilda;
you're wet through. Let me take off your coat
--and your boots; they're oozing water."
He knelt down and began to unlace her shoes,
while Hilda shrank into the chair. "Here, put
your feet on this stool. You don't mean to say
you walked down--and without overshoes!"
Hilda hid her face in her hands. "I was
afraid to take a cab. Can't you see, Bartley,
that I'm terribly frightened? I've been
through this a hundred times to-day. Don't
be any more angry than you can help. I was
all right until I knew you were in town.
If you'd sent me a note, or telephoned me,
or anything! But you won't let me write to you,
and I had to see you after that letter, that
terrible letter you wrote me when you got home.
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