forbade her to call you down. She and Streffy are waiting to take me to the station, and I've run up to say good-bye."
"Ellie, dear!" Full of compunction, Lansing pushed aside his writing and started up; but she pressed him back into his seat.
"No, no! I should never forgive myself if I'd interrupted you. I oughtn't to have come up; Susy didn't want me to. But I had to tell you, you dear. . . . I had to thank you. . . ."
In her dark travelling dress and hat, so discreetly conspicuous, so negligent and so studied, with a veil masking her paint, and gloves hiding her rings, she looked younger, simpler, more natural than he had ever seen her. Poor Ellie such a good fellow, after all!
"To thank me? For what? For being so happy here?" he laughed, taking her hands.
She looked at him, laughed back, and flung her arms about his neck.
"For helping me to be so happy elsewhere—you and Susy, you two blessed darlings!" she cried, with a kiss on his cheek.
Their eyes met for a second; then her arms slipped slowly downward, dropping to her sides. Lansing sat before her like a stone.
"Oh," she gasped, "why do you stare so? Didn't you know . . . ?"
They heard Strefford's shrill voice on the stairs. "Ellie, where the deuce are you? Susy's in the gondola. You'll miss the train!"
