"Pretty well? Hmmm!" he considered the matter judicially. "Yes, I think I may safely say that."

She laughed as though he had been very witty, then quickly became grave.

"Were you thinking hard for me at the first, when I almost fizzled?"

"The hardest I knew how. I was afraid you were losing your nerve."

"I was. I never was so scared in my life. It came over me all at once that the next few minutes would probably decide everything for me, and I could see only strangers--critical strangers who wouldn't care. Then I saw you sitting back there and--and then I could sing. Thank you for coming."

"You're quite welcome, I'm sure." He laughed at her thanks. "Did you think for a minute that I could stay away? And are you aware that we have never shaken hands? It is really high time. Would you mind?"

Her smile was sunshine itself. "With all my heart." She put out her hand. He took it and held it.

And he dropped it and stood looking strangely at his own hand. For it was tingling deliciously. And at her touch and the look that went with it his heart had burst into a sudden mad singing--a song not of exile or thanksgiving, but of a longing to which he might never give tongue.

The hand fell slowly to his side. With an effort he lifted his glance to her questioning, startled eyes. He tried to make his voice easy and natural, but it was heavy and stiff.

"I--I congratulate you. I hope--I know--to-day is only the beginning of many fine things for you."

Then he turned quickly and left her.

In his room, when the first daze had cleared a little, he set himself sternly to face this new thing. For he knew now why the old sense of loss--of the dream woman shrunk to a wife to whom love was only a bauble to be worn in fair weather--and why the failure of love had ceased to trouble, why Shirley had drifted so quickly, so easily into the shadowy background of his life. He saw what had helped him to win his new brave philosophy, had builded the walls of his sanctuary. His poor sanctuary! What refuge could it offer now? Another house of his building lay about him, a grim hopeless ruin.

"Oh, Esther!" he whispered to the girl he might not have. "Oh, Esther!"

He sat there, trying to see what he must do. Darkness fell. But he wanted no light. He did not stir until late in the evening chords from the piano reached him.

He rose and opened the door and a voice, athrob with pain, floated up to him.

"By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept. . . ."

CHAPTER X

AT THE DOOR

But Shirley was a fact. By morning--no sleep came to him that night--he had decided what he must do about that fact. It was then not a very complex problem.

He took a lightly packed bag with him to the office and at the first opportunity presented himself to Jonathan.

"May I take to-morrow off? There is a matter I must attend to at once.

I can be back by day after to-morrow."

"Certainly," said Jonathan, without looking up.

"Thank you." David hesitated. "Mr. Radbourne, do you know anything definite of the situation at St. Mark's?"

"Nothing definite."

"Do you think there's any chance for me at all?"

"The committee will decide this week. There's a man named Holden--"

"I know him."

"He seems to have influence--and not much else. But Mr. Blaisdell is trying to see that you get fair play."

"Is it necessary for Mr. Blaisdell to use his influence very actively in my favor?"

"I'm afraid it is."

"I'm sorry. I knew, of course, that you and he would do all you could--if it was needed. But I thought perhaps my plans would justify the committee--"

"They do. And they justify any work that has been done for you. There is no obligation that need weigh heavily on you."

"It isn't that. I appreciate my--my friends' willingness to help. But I'd hoped to be able to win solely on my merits in this thing."

"Do you wish us--Mr. Blaisdell to refrain?"

"No. I need to get back into my profession. It means so much to me--in a new way--that I'll be glad to have it on any terms. That doesn't mean that I'm not grateful for the kindness I've had here.-- But I'm interrupting." And David went back to his drawing.

All that day he avoided Esther, sticking close to his table. Not until she was leaving at the end of the afternoon did he seek her.

"Miss Summers, I forgot to tell your aunt that I shan't be back until day after to-morrow. Will you please tell her for me?"

"You are going away?"

"Yes." He made no explanation.

"I will tell her."

"Thank you." And because he was holding himself sternly rigid, lest eyes or tone cry out what must not be said, he spoke almost curtly.

She moved quietly away from him and did not once look back, though she knew he was watching her. But when a door was between them she stopped for a moment, quivering lips pressed hard, both hands tightly clenched.

Then she, too, sought Jonathan.

"Mr. Radbourne, the church people telephoned to-day that I can have the position."

"I am very glad. When shall you be leaving the office?"

"At the end of the week, if you can get some one for my place."

"So soon! I--"

"I will stay as long as I'm needed, of course."