retrenched himself behind ambiguities, suggestions that they should await Mrs. Westmore’s return, and general considerations of a pessimistic nature, tapering off into a gloomy view of the weather.
“By God, I’ll write to her!” Amherst exclaimed, as the Gaines portals closed on him; and all the way back to Westmore he was busy marshalling his arguments and entreaties.
He wrote the letter that night, but did not post it. Some unavowed distrust of her restrained him—a distrust not of her heart but of her intelligence. He felt that the whole future of Westmore was at stake, and decided to await the development of the next twenty-four hours. The letter was still in his pocket when, after dinner, he was summoned to the office by Truscomb.
That evening, when he returned home, he entered the little sitting-room without speaking. His mother sat there alone, in her usual place—how many nights he had seen the lamplight slant at that particular angle across her fresh cheek and the fine wrinkles about her eyes! He was going to add another wrinkle to the number now—soon they would creep down and encroach upon the smoothness of the cheek.
She looked up and saw that his glance was turned to the crowded bookshelves behind her.
“There must be nearly a thousand of them,” he said as their eyes met.
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