He sat drooping, as though the light had in itself a weight that bore him down.  His face was gray; his hands hung impotently from the arms of his chair.  He still did not meet her eyes, which had taken in every line of his figure, the little details of his dress, even the inconspicuous pearl pin thrust through the loose ends of his tie.  A man opened the door hurriedly and peered in:  Bassett was wanted elsewhere, he said.  Without rising Bassett bade him wait outside.  The man seemed to understand that he was to act as guard, and he began patroling the corridor.  The sound of his steps on the tiles was plainly distinguishable as he passed the door.

“It’s all right now,” Bassett explained.  “No one will come in here.”

He threw his arm over the back of his chair and bent upon Sylvia a glance of mingled curiosity and indifference.

“I understand,” she said quietly, “that nothing has been done.  It is not yet too late.  The situation here is as it has been?”

“Yes; if you mean out there.  They are waiting for me.”

“I suppose Mr. Harwood is there, and Mr. Thatcher.”

He blinked at the names and changed his position slightly.

“I dare say they are,” he answered coldly.

“I thought it best to see you and talk to you; and I’m glad I knew before it was too late.”

His eyes surveyed her slowly now from head to foot.  Why was she glad she had known before it was too late?  Her calmness made him uneasy, restless.  It was a familiar characteristic of Morton Bassett that he met storm and stress stoically.  He was prepared for scorn, recrimination, tears; but this dark-eyed girl, sitting before him in her gray walking-dress and plain hat with a bunch of scarlet flowers showing through the veil she had caught up over them, seemed in no danger of yielding to tears.  Her voice fell in cool, even tones.  He had said that he expected her, but she did not know what manner of meeting he had been counting on in his speculations.  After a long look he passed his hand across his face.

“I hope you haven’t thought—­you didn’t think I should let them bring you into it.”

He spoke as though this were something due her; that she was entitled to his reassurance that the threatened cataclysm should not drag her down with him.  When she made no reply he seemed to feel that he had not made himself clear, and he repeated, in other terms, that she need not be concerned for the outcome; that he meant to shield her.

“Yes; I supposed you would do that; I had expected that.”

“And,” he went on, as though to anticipate her, to eliminate the necessity for her further explanations, “you have a right to ask what you please.  Or we can meet again to arrange matters.  I am prepared to satisfy your demands in the fullest sense.”

His embarrassment had passed.  She had sought the interview, but he had taken charge of it.  Beyond the closed door the stage waited.  This was the briefest interlude before the moment of his triumphant entrance.