So it was settled, and as she departed he opened the door for her and held out his hand.  But once more the little black muff came into play, and Diane walked out as she had come in, with no other salutation than a dignified inclination of the head.

Derek closed the door behind her and stood with his hand on the knob.  He took the gentle rebuke like a man.

“I’m a cad,” he said to himself.  “I’m a cad.”

Returning to his former place on the hearth, he remained long, gazing into the dying embers, and rehearsing the points of the interview in his mind.  The gloaming closed around him, and he took pleasure in the fancy that she was still sitting there—­silent, patient, erect, with that pinched look of privation so gallantly borne.

“By Jove! she’s a brave one!” he murmured, under his breath.  “She’s a brick.  She’s a soldier.  She’s a lady.  She’s the one woman in the world to whom I could intrust my child.”

Then, as his head sank in meditation, he shook himself as though to wake up from sleep into actual day.

“I’ve been dreaming,” he said—­“I’ve been dreaming.  I must get away.  I must go back to the office.  I must get to work.”

But instead of going he threw himself into one of the deep arm-chairs.  Dropping off into a reverie, he conjured up the scene which had long been the fairest in his memory.

It was the summer.  It was the country.  It was a garden.  In the long bed the carnations of many colors were bending their beauty-drunken heads, while over them a girl was stooping.  She picked one here, one there, in search of that which would suit him best.  When she had found it—­deep red, with shades in the inner petals nearly black—­she turned to offer it.  But when she looked at him, he saw it was—­Diane.

VIII

It had apparently been decreed that Derek Pruyn was not to go to South America that year.  On more than one occasion he had been delayed on the eve of sailing.  From February the voyage was postponed to May, and from May to September.  In September it had ceased for the moment to be urgent, while remaining a possibility.  It was the February of a year later before it became a definite necessity no longer to be put off.

In the mean while, under the beneficent processes of time, sunshine, and Diane Eveleth’s cultivation, Miss Dorothea Pruyn had become a “bud.”  The small, hard, green thing had unfolded petals whose delicacy, purity, and fragrance were a new contribution to the joy of living.  Society in general showed its appreciation, and Derek Pruyn was proud.