Behind the girl lay the warm, bright hall
that had always been so empty and drear in his boyhood. It was furnished
now. Already it had the look of having been lived in for years. There
were flowers in a tall jar on the table and a fire on the broad hearth.
And against this background stood the strong, fine form of the young
mistress.
"Welcome home, Con!"
Truedale, for a moment, dared not trust his voice. He gripped her hands
and felt as if he were emerging from a trance. Then, of a sudden, a deep
resentment overpowered him. They could not understand, of course, but
every word and tone of appropriation seemed an insult to the reality
that he knew existed. He no longer belonged to them, to the life into
which they were trying to draw him. To-morrow he would explain; he was
eager to do so and end the restraint that sprang into being the moment
he touched Lynda's hands.
Lynda watched the tense face confronting her and believed Conning was
suffering pangs of remorse and regret. She was filled with pity and
sympathy shone in her eyes. She led him to the library and there
familiarity greeted him--the room was unchanged. Lynda had respected
everything; it was as it always had been except that the long, low chair
was empty.
They talked together softly in the quiet place until dinner--talked of
indifferent things, realizing that they must keep on the surface.
Pages:
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127