"Because," she flushed guiltily,--"because it will be very much pleasanter than remaining here alone."
Whereupon the woman in the mirror ceased her questioning.
And, in the meanwhile, the relentless old clock was goading Donaldson. Its methodical, interminable ticking sounded like the approaching footsteps of a jailer towards the death cell.
"Don't you know better than to risk yourself out there one whole spring-time day with her?" it demanded.
"But with a full realization of the danger I can guard myself," he answered uneasily.
"That is unpardonable presumption," replied Donaldson heatedly.
"The mellow sun and the birthing flowers are ever presumptuous," answered the wise old clock.
"I have ticked here many years and seen many things that man has prided himself upon having the power to do and yet has failed of doing."
"I cannot help myself. I should offend her unwarrantedly if I made further objection."
"I have power over myself. And you are insulting her."
"Tick-tock. Tick-tock," answered the clock, jeeringly.
And Donaldson was saved from his impulse to kick the inanimate thing into splinters by the sound of her footsteps.
She came down the stairs, a vision of young womanhood, dressed in white, with a wide turn-down collar fastened at the throat by a generous tie of black. Her hat was a girlish affair of black straw with a cluster of red roses gathered at the brim. She was drawing on her black gloves as she neared him--with the background of the broad Colonial staircase--a study for a master. She approached with the grace of a princess and the poise of a woman twice her years. He now could have no more bade her remain behind than he could have stopped the progress of time. There was something almost inevitable in her movements, as though it had been foreordained that they two should have this day in the country, no matter under what evil auspices. Without a word he held open the door for her to pass through and followed her into the cab.
Into the Drive they were whirled and so towards the station, the throbbing heart of the city. The ant-like throng was going and coming, and now he was one of them. It was as though the strand of his life, hanging loose, had been caught up, forced into the shuttle, and taken again into the pattern. At her side he made his way into the depot at the side of a hundred others; at her side he took his turn in line at the ticket window; at her side he made his way towards the gates, a score of others jostling him in criticism of his more moderate pace. An old client, one of his few, bowed to him. He returned the salute as though his position were the most matter-of-fact one in the world. Yet he was still confused. He had been thrust upon the stage but he was uncertain of his cue. What was the meaning of this figure by his side? In his old part, she had not been there.