Home again! She was home! A dizziness fell upon him for a space, and all things grew blurred and indistinct. When the vapor passed he returned the letter to its envelope, opened a drawer in his bureau, and brought forth an old handkerchief case. In it there were withered flowers, scraps of ribbon, a broken fan, and packets of old letters. He took out one of the packets, raised the ribbon (torn from some gown of hers), and slid under this latest letter, which would probably be the last.
Yes, he would go. And if the celebrities loosed their covert and fatuous smiles when his back was turned, so be it. His poverty was clean and honorable. He dressed slowly, and once he gazed into the mirror. The face he saw there was not inspiring, lined and hollowed as it was; but its pallor lent a refinement to it, that tender, proud refinement which describes a lofty soul, full of gentleness and nobility.
From time to time he approached the window. How the snow whirled, eddied, sank, and whirled again! The arc lamps became luminous clouds. He looked at his shoes. Could he afford a cab? And yet, could he afford to appear before her, his shoes wet, his clothes damp with snow? He decided in favor of the cab. It was Christmas Eve; a little luxury would not be wrong.
By-and-by he stepped out of the boarding-house into the storm. Clouds of moist feathery particles surged over him, and crept inside his rusty velvet collar. Suddenly he discovered a handsome coupé standing in front. The footman was walking up and down while the driver beat his hands across his breast. Williard did not understand what this elegant equipage was doing in such a street. Even as he cogitated, the footman descried him and approached.
"Beg pardon, sir; Mr. Williard?" he inquired.
"Yes, I am Mr. Williard," was the wondering answer.
"Then we are just in time, sir!" The footman ran to the coupé and opened the door respectfully.
"You have made a mistake, my man," said Williard. "I did not order--"
"We are from Miss Wycklift's," said the footman.
Her carriage! And she had sent it to his boarding-house for fear he might slip past!
"Are you certain?" he asked, still in doubt.
"If you are Mr. Williard there isn't a particle of doubt, sir." The tone was perfectly respectful, and did more to determine Williard than anything else.