Moreover, she stood in open rebellion at being, so
to speak, put on the rack.
She turned abruptly and left him. What did it matter, anyway? She was
too proud to plead, and it was worse than useless to explain.
Even so, womanlike, she listened, expecting to hear Jack's step
hurrying up behind. She could not imagine him letting her go like
that. But he did not come, and when, at a distance of two blocks, she
stole a backward glance, he had disappeared.
She returned to the boarding-house. The parlor door stood wide, and
the curious, quickly averted glance of a girl she knew sent her
quivering up to her room. Safe in that refuge, she sat down by the
window, with her chin on her palms, struggling with the impulse to cry,
protesting with all her young strength against the bitterness that had
come to her through no fault of her own. There was only one cheerful
gleam. She loved Jack Barrow. She believed that he loved her, and she
could not believe--she could not conceive--him capable of keeping
aloof, obdurate and unforgiving, once he got out of the black mood he
was in. Then she could snuggle up close to him and tell him how and
why Mr. Andrew Bush had struck at her from his deathbed.
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