I set out for "home" half a dozen times at
least, that afternoon, before I pulled myself together, called myself an
ass, and, with a pause at Delmonico's for a drink, which I ordered and then
rejected, finally pushed myself in at the door. What, a state my nerves
were in!
Alva had departed; Anita was waiting for me in her sitting-room. When she
heard me in the hall, just outside, she stood in the doorway. "Come in,"
she said to me, who did not dare so much as a glance at her.
I entered. I must have looked as I felt--like a boy, summoned before
the teacher to be whipped in presence of the entire school. Then I was
conscious that she had my hand--how she had got it, I don't know--and that
she was murmuring, with tears of happiness in her voice: "Oh, I can't
_say_ it!"
"Glad you like your own taste," said I awkwardly. "You know, Alva told me."
"But it's one thing to dream, and a very different thing to do," she
answered. Then, with smiling reproach: "And I've been thinking all summer
that you were ruined! I've been expecting to hear every day that you had
had to give up the fight."
"Oh--that passed long ago," said I.
"But you never told me," she reminded me. "And I'm glad you didn't,"
she added.
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