The rejoinder came faintly: "How do you know?"
"I--wrote to you. Do you approve my writing to you?"
"I wrote that I would not see you again."
He said: "That, also, is best. Don't think of it at all. And about the armour, do exactly what you would do if you were in my place. Good-bye."
"Could you wait a moment? I am trying to think----"
There was a silence; a tiny spot of blood reddened his bitten lip before she spoke again; then:
"I wished to tell you something. I knew why you wrote. Is it right for me to tell you that I understood you? I wanted to write and say so, and--say something else--about how I felt--but it seems I can't. Only--we could be friends more easily now--if you wish."
"Yes, I have, Mr. Desboro. But we _can_ be friends?"
"Could you be _mine_, after what I have written?"
"I thought I couldn't, at first. But that day was a--long one. And when a girl is much alone she becomes very honest with herself. And it all was entirely new to me. I didn't know what I ought to have done about it--only what I wished to do."
"All up to that time you wish might be again as it was? _All?_"
"Don't ask me. I don't know--I don't know what I think any more."
"How deeply do you suppose I feel about it?"
"I did not know you felt anything very deeply."
There was a long pause, then her voice again:
"You know--you need not be afraid. I did not know enough to be until you wrote. But I understand, now."
He said: "It will be all right, then. It will be quite all right, Jacqueline. I'll come up on the noon train."
His car met him at the station. The snow had melted and the wet macadam road glittered under a declining winter sun, as the car rolled smoothly away through the still valleys of Westchester.
Mrs. Quant, in best bib and tucker and lilac ribbons, welcomed him, and almost wept at his pallor; but he shrugged impatiently and sprang up the low steps. Here the necessity for self-control stopped him short on his way to the armoury. He turned to Mrs. Quant with an effort:
"No, Mr. James. Phibby broke a cup and saucer Saturday, and there is new kittens in the laundry--which makes nine cats----"
"Yes, sir--in the liberry--which ain't been dusted right by that Phibby minx----"
"Tell Phoebe to dust it!" he said sternly. "Do you suppose Miss Nevers cares to handle dirty books!" His restless glance fell on the clock: "Tell Farris I'm here and that Miss Nevers and I will lunch as soon as it's served. And say to Miss Nevers that I'll be down in a few minutes." He turned and mounted the stairs to his room, and found it full of white, clove-scented carnations.