"
Alexander faced her, resting his arm on
the mantel behind him, and began to brush
the sleeve of his jacket. "Is this the way you
mean to answer it, Hilda?" he asked unsteadily.
She was afraid to look up at him.
"Didn't--didn't you mean even to say goodby
to me, Bartley? Did you mean just to--
quit me?" she asked. "I came to tell you that
I'm willing to do as you asked me. But it's no
use talking about that now. Give me my things,
please." She put her hand out toward the fender.
Alexander sat down on the arm of her chair.
"Did you think I had forgotten you were
in town, Hilda? Do you think I kept away by accident?
Did you suppose I didn't know you were sailing on Tuesday?
There is a letter for you there, in my desk drawer.
It was to have reached you on the steamer. I was
all the morning writing it. I told myself that
if I were really thinking of you, and not of myself,
a letter would be better than nothing.
Marks on paper mean something to you."
He paused. "They never did to me."
Hilda smiled up at him beautifully and
put her hand on his sleeve. "Oh, Bartley!
Did you write to me? Why didn't you telephone
me to let me know that you had? Then I wouldn't
have come."
Alexander slipped his arm about her. "I didn't know
it before, Hilda, on my honor I didn't, but I believe
it was because, deep down in me somewhere, I was hoping
I might drive you to do just this. I've watched
that door all day.
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