Again she thought of Larry.  But she would not admit to herself that her real motive for suddenly deciding to go to Cedar Crest on the morrow was the chance of seeing him.

CHAPTER XXVI

During all these days Larry waited for news of the result of the experiment in psychology which meant so much to his life.  He had not expected to hear directly from Maggie; but he had counted upon learning at once from Dick, if not by words, then either from eloquent dejection which would proclaim Dick’s refusal (and Larry’s success) or from an ebullient joy which would proclaim that Maggie had accepted him.  But Dick’s sober but not unhappy behavior announced neither of these two to Larry; and the matter was too personal, altogether too delicate, to permit Larry to ask Dick the result, however subtly he might ask it.

So Larry could only wait—­and wonder.  The truth did not occur to Larry; he did not see that there might be another alternative to the two possible reactions he had calculated upon.  He did not bear in mind that Maggie’s youthful obstinacy, her belief in herself and her ways, were too solid a structure to yield at once to one moral shock, however wisely planned and however strong.  He did not at this time hold in mind that any real change in so decided a character as Maggie, if change there was to be, would be preceded and accompanied by a turbulent period in which she would hardly know who she was, or where she was, or what she was going to do—­and that at the end of such a period there might be no change at all.

Inasmuch as just then Maggie was his major interest, it seemed to Larry in his safe seclusion that he was merely marking time, and marking time with feet that were frantically impatient.  He felt he could not stand much longer his own inactivity and his ignorance of what Maggie was doing and what was happening to her.  He could not remain in this sanctuary pulling strings, and very long and fragile strings, and strings which might be the mistaken ones, for any much greater period.  He felt that he simply had to walk out of this splendid safety, back into the dangers from which he had fled, where he might at least have the possible advantage of being in the very midst of Maggie’s affairs and fight for her more openly and have a more direct influence upon her.

He knew that, sooner or later, he was going to throw caution aside and appear suddenly among his enemies, unless something of a definite character developed.  But for these slow, irritating days he held himself in check with difficulty, hoping that things might come to him, that he would not have to go forth to them.

He had brought Hunt’s portrait of Maggie to Cedar Crest in the bottom of his trunk, and kept it locked in his chiffonier.  During these days, more frequently than before, he would take out the portrait and in the security of his locked room would gaze long at that keen-visioned portrayal of her many characters.  No doubt of it:  there was a possible splendid woman there!  And no doubt of it:  he loved that woman utterly!