WEEKS passed and she had not gone to Merwin’s. For a while Eldridge watched her face and waited for the Merwin look to come.... Then he forgot it—for weeks he did not think of it. There had been another concert; they had gone to a play and then to another; and as the spring came on he took her for long drives into the country; sometimes they went with the children, but more often alone. They drove far out in the country and came back at early dusk, the brick houses softly outlined about them.
 
She could not fail to see that he was devoted¹ to her. Sometimes he brought a flower and left it on her table; he never gave it to her directly, and there was no response to it. Beyond the one quiet look at the concert, she had given no sign—only that now she would sit with him silent, a long time, as if she did not repel² him.
 
He was working hard and the business had grown. A new class of clients was coming to him—men with big interests—and the work often kept him late at the office. Sometimes he would take supper in town and work far into the evening.
 
It was late in June that he came home one night and found her sitting alone in the porch—a shadowy figure—as he came up the brick walk.
 
The day had been warm, but the air had grown cool now and the moon glimmered³ over the houses and roofs and on the few trees and shrubs⁴ in the yard.
 
They sat a long time in the porch, talking of the children and of the work he had stayed for and a little about going away for the summer; they had never been away in the summer, but they were going next week. He had tried to send her earlier, when the children were through school, but she had waited, and he had arranged for them all to get away together.
 
The moon rose high over the roofs and picked out the little lines of vines on the porch and touched her face and hair. She was wearing a light dress, something filmy, that was half in shadow, and his eyes traced the lines of it. She was always mysterious, but often now as he looked at her he felt that her guard was down. There were only a few steps more to cross—he began to wonder if he should ever take them—to-night perhaps? Or was he not, after all, the man to win her?
 
She did not hold him back. It was something in him that waited. He watched, through the moonlight, the vine shadows on her face—and he remembered the night when she lay asleep—and he had watched her face—the stranger’s face—close to him... and a boy and girl stood in the moonlight and looked at him mistily—and drew back—and his wife swayed a little, rocking in her chair, and her shadow moved on the floor....
 
If he should speak—to her—now—what would she do? Would the gentle rocking cease?...
 
Then, slowly, a face grew before him. He watched it shape and fade—with its grimness and kindness and a look of pain that lay behind it—old Barstow’s face!... He kn............