He
sprang to her, and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.
'Peggy, old girl--'
She broke from him.
'Don't you touch me! Don't you do it! Gee, I wish I'd never seen you!'
She ran to the door, darted through, and banged it behind her.
Rutherford remained where he stood, motionless. Then, almost
mechanically, he felt in his pocket for matches, and relit his pipe.
Half an hour passed. Then the door opened slowly. Peggy came in. She
was pale, and her eyes were red. She smiled--a pathetic little smile.
'Peggy!'
He took a step towards her.
She held out her hand.
'I'm sorry, George. I feel mean.'
'Dear old girl, what rot!'
'I do. You don't know how mean I feel. You've been real nice to me,
George. Thought I'd look in and say I was sorry. Good night, George!'
On the following night he waited, but she did not come. The nights went
by, and still she did not come. And one morning, reading his paper, he
saw that _The Island of Girls_ had gone west to Chicago.
4
Things were not running well for Rutherford. He had had his vacation, a
golden fortnight of fresh air and sunshine in the Catskills, and was
back in Alcala, trying with poor success, to pick up the threads of his
work. But though the Indian Summer had begun, and there was energy in
the air, night after night he sat idle in his room; night after night
went wearily to bed, oppressed with a dull sense of failure.
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