"
The next night was terrifically stormy--one of those spring storms that
sweep everything before them. The bubbles danced on the pavements, the
gutters ran floods, and fragments of umbrellas and garments floated
incongruously on the tide.
Battling against the wind, Conning made his way to Lynda's. As he drew
near the house the glow from the windows seemed to meet and touch him
with welcome.
"I'll economize somewhere," Lynda often said, "but when darkness comes
I'm always going to do my best to get the better of it."
Just for one blank moment Truedale had a sickening thought: "Suppose
that welcome was never again for him, after this night?" Then he laughed
derisively. Lynda might have her ideals, her eternal reservations, but
she also had her superb faithfulness. After she knew _all_, she would
still be his friend.
When he went into the library Lynda sat before the fire knitting a long
strip of vivid wools. Conning had never seen her so employed and it had
the effect of puzzling him; it was like seeing her--well, smoking, as
some of her friends did! Nothing wrong in it--but, inharmonious.
"What are you making, Lyn?" he asked, taking the ottoman and drawing
close to her.
"It--it isn't anything, Con. No one wants trash like this. It fulfils
its mission when it is ravelled and knitted, then unravelled. You know
what Stevenson says: 'I travel for travel's sake; the great affair is to
move.
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