She shut herself softly in, and sank
into the only chair the little place contained.
Her mind was a chaos of conflicting emotions. Anger, disappointment, and
an almost insane exultation fought together for the mastery. She longed
to be rational, to think the matter out quietly and impartially, and
decide how to treat it. But her most determined efforts were vain. The
music disturbed her. She felt as if the chords were hammering upon her
brain. Yet when it suddenly ceased, the unexpected silence was almost
harder to bear.
In the buzz of applause that ensued, the door behind her opened, and a
man entered.
She heard the click of the key in the lock, and turned sharply to
protest. But the words died on her lips, for there was that in his
brown, resolute face that silenced her. She became suddenly breathless
and quivering before him, as she had been that day on the down when he
had taken her into his arms.
He withdrew the key, and dropped it into her lap.
"Open if you will," he said, in the quiet voice, half tender, half
humorous, that she had come to know so well. "I am closely followed by
the infant with the scowl."
Priscilla sat silent in her chair. What could she say to him?
"Well?" he said, after a moment. "The end of the story--is it written
yet?"
She shook her head dumbly. Curiously, the throbbing anger had left her
heart at the mere sound of his voice.
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