He would wait, he would
school himself to patience. Perhaps she would come back for it,--and
explain. Perhaps he could find her by advertising it,--and get an
explanation. Pending which, he could wait a little while. It was not his
wish to pry into her secrets, even if--even if....
It was something to be smoked over.... Strange how it affected him to
have in his hands something that she had owned and touched!
Opening a drawer of the desk, Maitland produced an aged pipe. A brazen
jar, companion piece to the ash receiver, held his tobacco. He filled the
pipe from the jar, with thoughtful deliberation. And scraped a match
beneath his chair and ignited the tobacco and puffed in contemplative
contentment, deriving solace from each mouthful of grateful, evanescent
incense. Meanwhile he held the charred match between thumb and forefinger.
Becoming conscious of this fact, he smiled in deprecation of his
absent-minded mood, looked for the ash-receiver, discovered it in place,
inverted beneath the book; and frowned, remembering. Then, with an
impatient gesture,--impatient of his own infirmity of mind: for he simply
could not forget the girl,--he dropped the match, swept the book aside,
lifted the bowl....
After a moment of incredulous awe, the young man rose, with eyes a-light
and a jubilant song in the heart of him. Now he knew, now understood, now
believed, and now was justified of his faith!
After which depression came, with the consciousness that she was gone, for
ever removed beyond his reach and influence, and that by her own wilful
act.
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