ALSTEAD had checked his trunk and was making his way toward the Forty-second Street entrance, where he was to meet Carter, when he caught sight of her. For an instant he paused, frowning, still gripped by the determination not to see her again, in which his long struggle had resulted. Then he remembered that it would be the last time, and gave himself five minutes for the conventional leave-taking which would be all that could be possible in such a place.
"Will you stop long enough to say good-by?" he asked, at her shoulder.
If she caught her breath, he did not notice it for trying to control his own unsteady pulse. He gathered, however, a comfortless impression that her glance was entirely calm.
"How did you hear that I was going?" Her voice sounded unnatural in her own ears, and she forced a more even tone. "I intended to 'fold my tent like the Arab.'"
"You!" he exclaimed. "You going away? Where?"
"Just at present, to spend a day with my cousin at New Haven. I'm early for my train, I think. My watch stopped."
It seemed to him all at once that she looked very tired. Her eyes were duller than their wont; about her mouth lay drooping lines; he missed the customary easy elasticity of her bearing and a certain buoyant quality in her voice.
"Shall we sit down for a moment?" That she hesitated before accepting his suggestion disquieted him further. Hesitancy was not characteristic of her.
"I beg pardon," Halstead was sensitive, "perhaps you are not alone? Or Dewing is coming?"
"No," she said. "See that funny little man with the broad shoulders and the short legs. He looks as if he had been forty years a football-player and had gradually been telescoped. By the way, what was the score Saturday?"
Halstead replied briefly: "Tie. Six to six," the while he nursed a cumulative indignation that any man bearing, as Horace Dewing did, the immeasurable distinction of being Betty Davenport's accepted lover could be so ungrateful and indifferent to the honors and privileges of his position that he could permit her to start on even so short a journey without his attendance, at least to the ticket gate.
Following his thought, he asked: "Shall you be long at New Haven?"
"Only until to-morrow afternoon."
"Oh, of course! You'll return for the Keenes' dinner to-morrow night!"
"No." She did not soften the brevity of her reply.
He turned to her in surprise, but her glance was toward the door.
"See that nice old—why, it's Mr. and Mrs. Eldridge!" She arose as two smiling white-haired people came toward them, the man in clerical dress.
"Have you seen Mrs. Bidwell?" asked Mrs. Eldridge. "We are to meet her at this train. She's coming to visit us."
"No, I haven't seen her," replied Betty.
"I hope she's not going to miss it! Ordinarily we could wait, but Mr. Eldridge has a wedding to-night, and we must get home. I wonder if she could find her way alone?"
"If I see her, shall I tell her—"
"Oh, if you please! Tell her, Betty, that we had to take this train, and we'll have a cab at the station to meet the next one. Thank you so much! Come, James."
"But Betty may not see Mrs. Bidwell," mildly protested the clergyman. "There will be other trains, and—"
"I decline to take any risks," interrupted his wife, whose firm tone in no wise discounted the sweetness of her smile. "You must not be late at that wedding, James. Everybody would say I had managed so badly! Mrs. Bidwell will come along presently, I'm sure."
"If I see her—" began Miss Davenport.
"Yes, if you please! Good-by," and the gently protesting clergyman was borne away by his en
Betty laughed. "He'll not be late at the wedding!" she said, resuming her seat.
"Who is he?"
"Mr. Eldridge—Rector of 'The Three Angels' at New Rochelle. He used to be in Albany. He married—and buried—my parents, and christened me.
"And I suppose he'll marry you." Halstead used the carefully commonplace tone with which a man masks his wounds.
"I don't know." Her glance seemed to wander vaguely. "What is that megaphone man saying? It must be time for my train."
"Not quite, I think. I—please don't think me intrusive, but—is it to be soon?" Halstead knew that he was playing with fire, but he felt a savage pleasure in torturing himself with temptation to which both pride and honor forbade his yielding.
"Soon? What?"
"Your wedding."
She met his glance with reserve. "I don't know," she said, coldly.
"I beg your pardon. I asked because I am going away, and if it is to be soon—very soon—"
"You are going away? For long?"