And Jean?
It was as if she still dwelt in fancy in that unforgettable past. She
had burst her bars; she had come, a fugitive, to the birch-edged shore
of a lonely lake; her knight of the forest stood before her.
[Illustration: Her knight of the forest stood before her.]
The astonished MacGregor, having waited a decent interval for some
rational clew to the situation, recalled his own existence by the
simple expedient of folding the screen.
"Step inside, won't you?" he invited with a dry grin. "You may take
cold at the window."
Atwood turned an illumined face.
"It's been years since we met," he explained. "I was not sure at
first--the costume, the place."
MacGregor's eye lingered upon him in humorous meditation.
"Perhaps you'll see your way in time to introduce me," he suggested.
"This has been a business session, so far. We hadn't come to names."
The younger man floundered, glowing healthily, but Jean retained her
wits.
"Miss Fanshaw," she supplied promptly. "I should have mentioned it
before."
She vanished into the alcove, questioned her unfamiliar image in the
little mirror, and began to resume her street-dress with fingers
not under perfect control. There came an indistinct murmur of talk
from the studio in which MacGregor's incisive tones predominated. His
companion's responses were few and low. When she reëntered, Atwood
stood waiting by the outer door.
"At nine, then," reminded MacGregor. "So-long, Craig, if you must go."
"So-long," answered the other, absently.
On the stair they faced each other with the wonder of their meeting
still upon them.
"You are not a professional model," he said; "I should have come across
you before, if you were."
"You have seen me get my first engagement."
"And with MacGregor! Was it chance?"
"Just chance."
"Jove!" he ejaculated. "It might have been myself. Yet it's strange
enough as it is. MacGregor in there was the chap I was to camp with,
you remember? The man whose grandmother--"
"Great-grandmother, wasn't it?" she smiled.
"You do remember!"
A silence fell upon them for a little moment and they assayed each
other shyly, he keenly aware of the fuller curves which had made a
woman of her, she searching rather for reminders of the youth whose
image had gone back with her through the gatehouse into bondage. He was
more grave, as became a man now looking back upon his golden twenties,
with thoughtful lines about the eyes, and a clearer demarcation of
the jaw, which was, as of old, shaven, and pale with the pallor of a
dweller in cities. The mouth was the mouth of the youth, sensitive,
unspoiled; and the direct eyes had lost nothing of their friendliness,
though she divined that he weighed her, questioning what manner of
woman she had become.
"You went back," he broke the pause, "you went back to that inferno
because of what I said. You saw it through. Plucky Jack!"
"Jean," she corrected.
"Why?"
"Jack was another girl, a girl I hope I've outgrown."
"Don't say that," he protested. "I knew her. But this Jean of the
staircase--"
"Well?" she challenged, avid for his mature opinion.
"Makes me wonder," he completed, "whether I've not been outgrown, too."
It was not a satisfying answer. She remembered that growth may be other
than benign.
"You!" she said.
"Why not? I was young, preposterously young. Had I been older, I should
never have dared meddle with your life."
"Meddle!" she repeated, his self-reproach rang so true; "you gave
me the wisest advice such a girl could receive. That girl could not
appreciate how wise it was, but this one does and thanks you from the
bottom of her heart."
Atwood drew a long breath.
"You can say that!" he exclaimed. "You knew what it meant to return;
I did not. Since I have realized the truth, the thought of my folly
has given me no peace. I imagined--God knows what I haven't imagined!
To see you here, as you are; to have you thank me, when I thought I
deserved your undying hate, is like a reprieve."