But the turning of the key seemed to
proclaim to the whole city a new dispensation. A declaration of
independence that spurned--tradition.
For a moment Truedale was angry, unsettled, and outraged. He strode into
the room with stern eyes; he walked half way to the closed--and
locked--door; he gazed upon it as if it were a tangible foe which he
might overcome and, by so doing, reestablish the old ideals. Then--and
it was the saving grace--Truedale smiled grimly. "To be sure," he
muttered. "Of course!" and turned to his room under the eaves.
But the following day had to be faced. There were several things that
had to be dealt with besides the condition arising from the locking of
the door of William Truedale's room.
Conning battled with this fact nearly all night, little realizing that
Lynda was feeling her way to the same conclusion in the quiet room
below.
"I'm not beaten, Uncle William," she whispered, kneeling beside the bed.
"If I could only see how to meet to-morrow I would be all right."
And then a queer sort of comfort came to her. The humour with which her
old friend would have viewed the situation pervaded the room, bringing
strength with it.
"I know," she confided to the darkness in which the old man seemed
present, in a marvellously real way, "I know I love Conning. A
make-believe love couldn't stand this--but the true thing can.
Pages:
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236