He made no reply. He could not have spoken if he had tried. Once more the spell had seized him--the spell of her weird fascination for him. As she sat typewriting, with her back almost toward him, he sat watching her and analyzing his own folly. He knew that diagnosing a disease does not cure it; but he found an acute pleasure in lingering upon all the details of the effect she had upon his nerves. He did not dare move from his desk, from the position that put a huge table and a revolving case of reference books between them.
He believed that if he went nearer he would be unable to resist seizing her in his arms and pouring out the passion that was playing along his nerves as the delicate, intense flame flits back and forth along the surface of burning alcohol.
A knock at the door. He plunged into his papers.
"Come!" he called.
Tetlow thrust in his head. Miss Hallowell did not look up. "I'm off," the head clerk said. His gaze was upon the unconscious girl--a gaze that filled Norman with longing to strangle him.
"Telegraph me from Albany as soon as you get there," said Norman. "Telegraph me at my club."
Tetlow was gone. The machine tapped monotonously on. The barette which held the girl's hair at the back was so high that the full beauty of the nape of her neck was revealed. That wonderful white skin with the golden tint! How soft--yet how firm--her flesh looked! How slender yet how strong was her build----"How do you like Tetlow?" he asked, because speak to her he must.
She glanced up, turned in her chair. He quivered before the gaze from those enchanting eyes of hers. "I beg pardon," she said. "I didn't hear."
"Tetlow--how do you like him?"
"He is very kind to me--to everyone."
"How did your father like him?"
He confidently expected some sign of confusion, but there was no sign. "Father was delighted with him," she said merrily. "He took an interest in the work father's doing--and that was enough."
She was about to turn back to her task. He hastened to ask another question. "Couldn't I meet your father some time? What Tetlow told me interested me greatly."
"Father would be awfully pleased," replied she.
"But--unless you really care about--biology, I don't think you'd like coming."
"I'm interested in everything interesting," replied Norman dizzily. What was he saying? What was he doing? What folly was his madness plunging him into?
"You can come with Mr. Tetlow when he gets back."
"I'd prefer to talk with him alone," said Norman.
"Perhaps I might see some way to be of service to him."
Her expression was vividly different from what it had been when he offered to help HER. She became radiant with happiness. "I do hope you'll come," she said --her voice very low and sweet, in the effort she was ****** to restrain yet express her feelings.
"When? This evening?"
"He's always at home."
"You'll be there?"
"I'm always there, too. We have no friends. It's not easy to make acquaintances in the East--congenial acquaintances."
"I'd want you to be there," he explained with great care, "because you could help him and me in getting acquainted."
"Oh, he'll talk freely--to anyone. He talks only the one subject. He never thinks of anything else."
She was resting her crossed arms on the back of her chair and, with her chin upon them, was looking at him --a childlike pose and a childlike expression. He said:
"You are SURE you are twenty?"
She smiled gayly. "Nearly twenty-one."
"Old enough to be in love."
She lifted her head and laughed. She had charming white teeth--small and sharp and with enough irregularity to carry out her general suggestion of variability.
"Yes, I shall like that, when it comes," she said;
"But the chances are against it just now."
"There's Tetlow."
She was much amused. "Oh, he's far too old and serious."
Norman felt depressed. "Why, he's only thirty-five."
"But I'm not twenty-one," she reminded him. "I'd want some one of my own age. I'm tired of being so solemn. If I had love, I'd expect it to change all that."
