Beattie, up there with her
night-light and her book, she knew she hated. Of Jeff she did not dare
to think, he made her wrists beat so, and of Alston Choate she knew it
was deliberately cruel of him not to come. And then as if her need of
something kind and unquestioning had summoned him, a step fell on the
walk, and she saw Reardon, and went herself to let him in. There he was,
florid, large, and a little anxious.

"I felt," said he, "as if something had happened to you."

She stood there under the dim hall-light, a girlish creature in her
white dress, but with wonderful colour blooming in her cheeks. He could
not know that hate had brought it there. She seemed to him the flower of
her own beauty, rich, overpowering. She held the door open for him, and
when he had followed her into the library, she turned and put both her
hands upon his arm, her soft nearness like a perfume and a breath. To
Reardon, she was immeasurably beautiful and as far as that above him.
His heart beating terribly in his ears, he drew her to him sure that, in
her aloofness, she would reprove him. But Esther, to his infinite joy
and amazement, melted into his arms and clung there.

"God!" said Reardon. She heard him saying it more than once as if
entirely to himself and no smaller word would do. "You don't--" he said
to her then, "you don't--care about me? It ain't possible." Reardon had
reverted to oldest associations and forgotten his verb.

She did not tell him whether she cared about him. She did not need to.
The constraining of her touch was enough, and presently they were
sitting face to face, he holding her hands and leaning to hear her
whispered words. For she had immediately her question ready:

"Do you think I ought to live like this--afraid?"

"Afraid?" asked Reardon. "Of him?"

"Yes. He came this afternoon. There is nobody to stand between us. I am
afraid."

Reardon made the only answer possible, and felt the thrill of his own
adequacy.

"I'll stand between you."

"But you can't," she said. "You've no right."

"There's but one thing for you to do," said Reardon. "Tell what you're
telling me to a lawyer. And I'll--" he hesitated. He hardly knew how to
put it so that her sense of fitness should not be offended. "I'll find
the money," he ended lamely.

The small hands stayed willingly in his. Reardon was a happy man, but at
the same time he was curiously ashamed. He was a clean man who ate
moderately and slept well and had t