But above everything else, what was most evident about him, as he came up the path, was confidence in the happiness promised by his errand; the anticipation in his eyes could have been read by a stranger. His look at the door of Isabel’s house was the look of a man who is quite certain that the next moment will reveal something ineffably charming, inexpressibly dear.
When the bell rang, George waited at the entrance of the “reception room” until a housemaid came through the hall on her way to answer the summons.
“You needn’t mind, Mary,” he told her. “I’ll see who it is and what they want. Probably it’s only a pedlar.”
“Thank you, sir, Mister George,” said Mary; and returned to the rear of the house.
George went slowly to the front door, and halted, regarding the misty silhouette of the caller upon the ornamental frosted glass. After a minute of waiting, this silhouette changed outline so that an arm could be distinguished—an arm outstretched toward the bell, as if the gentleman outside doubted whether or not it had sounded, and were minded to try again. But before the gesture was completed George abruptly threw open the door, and stepped squarely upon the middle of the threshold.
A slight change shadowed the face of Eugene; his look of happy anticipation gave way to something formal and polite. “How do you do, George,” he said. “Mrs. Minafer expects to go driving with me, I believe—if you’ll be so kind as to send her word that I’m here.”
Eugene was incredulous, even when his second glance revealed how hot of eye was the haggard young man before him. “I beg your pardon. I said—”
“I heard you,” said George. “You said you had an engagement with my mother, and I told you, No!”
Eugene gave him a steady look, and then he quietly: “What is the—the difficulty?”
George kept his own voice quiet enough, but that did not mitigate the vibrant fury of it. “My—mother will have no interest in knowing that you came here to-day,” he said. “Or any other day!”
Eugene continued to look at him with a scrutiny in which began to gleam a profound anger, none less powerful because it was so quiet. “I am afraid I do not understand you.”
“I doubt if I could make it much plainer,” George said, raising his voice slightly, “but I’ll try. You’re not wanted in this house, Mr. Morgan, now or at any other time. Perhaps you’ll understand—this!”