I was
glad I had on a black dress--glad in a bad, deceitful way; though for a
moment after learning who Jimmy Beckett was, I had felt a true thrill of
loyal satisfaction because I was in mourning for my lost romance.
I went slowly down the four flights of stairs. I could not have gone
fast without falling. I opened the door of the stuffy _salon_, and
saw--the dearest couple the wide world could hold.
CHAPTER IV
They sat together, an old-fashioned pair, on an old-fashioned sofa,
facing the door. The thing I'd thought impossible had happened. The
father and mother of Jim Beckett had come to me.
For some reason, they seemed as much surprised at sight of me as I at
sight of them. We gazed at each other for an instant, all three without
moving. Then the old man (he was old, not middle-aged, as most fathers
are nowadays) got to his feet. He took a step toward me, holding out his
hand. His eyes searched mine; and, dimmed by years and sorrow as they
were, there was in them still a reminder of the unforgotten, eagle-gaze.
From him the son had inherited his high nose and square forehead. Had he
lived, some day Jim's face might have been chopped by Time's hatchet
into just such a rugged brown mask of old-manliness. Some day, Jim's
thick and smooth brown hair might have turned into such a snow-covered
thatch, like the roof of a cottage on a Christmas card.
The old lady was thin and flat of line, like a bas-relief that had come
alive and lost its background.
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