"I promise."
Their eyes met; the girl's looking into his shyly, gratefully;
the man's searching hers eagerly. And suddenly they saw each
other with a new and wonderful sympathy and understanding.
Winthrop felt himself bending toward her. He was conscious that
the room had grown dark, and that he could see only her eyes.
"You must be just yourself," he commanded, but so gently, so
tenderly, that, though he did not know it, each word carried
with it the touch of a caress, "just your sweet, fine, noble
self!"
Something he read in the girl's uplifted eyes made him draw back
with a shock of wonder, of delight, with an upbraiding
conscience. To pull himself together, he glanced quickly about
him. The day had really grown dark. He felt a sudden desire to
get away; to go where he could ask himself what had happened,
what it was that had filled this unknown, tawdry room with
beauty and given it the happiness of a home.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed nervously, "I had no idea I'd stayed so
long. You'll not let me come again. Goodbye -- until tomorrow."
He turned, holding out his hand, and found that again the girl
had dropped her face upon her arm, and was sobbing quietly,
gently.
"Oh, what is it?" cried Winthrop. "What have I said?" The catch
in the girl's voice as she tried to check the sobs wrenched his
heart. "Oh, please," he begged, "I've said something wrong? I've
hurt you?" With her face still hidden in her arms, the girl
shook her head.
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