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"Well," he said a little impatiently, "are you going to do it?"
At that the glow of her was turned fairly on him. "Yes," she said, "I'm
going to do it. I suppose I mustn't thank you," she went on, "because
you say it isn't anything you're doing for me. But it is--a great thing
for me--greater than I could tell you. And I won't fail. You needn't be
afraid."
Inexplicably to him (the problem wouldn't have troubled James Randolph)
the very completeness with which she made this acknowledgment--the very
warmth of the hand-clasp with which she bound the bargain, vaguely
disappointed him--left him feeling a little flat and empty over his
victory.
He found his pocketbook and counted out a hundred and twenty dollars,
which he handed over to her. She folded it and put it away in her
wrist-bag. The glow of her hadn't faded, but once more it was turned on
something--or some one--else. It wasn't until he rose a little abruptly
from the marble bench, that she roused herself with a shake of the head,
arose too, and once more faced him.


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