room; she carried a tray with black coffee and sandwiches on it. Cary by that time was walking up and down the rug, her pink chiffons trailing around her, the gold french clock clasped to her breast. Marcus, shouting, purple, was pacing, too, in circles around Dorcas.
Sophie, also, was dressed for the wedding. Beautifully, in brown with fur and a small, smart hat.
She put down the tray and took the clock from Cary’s hands. “Go and get dressed,” she said sternly to Cary. “Do you see this clock, Dorcas?”
“Won’t you go away? Won’t you leave me alone? … I’ll talk to Jevan. I’ll telephone now and ask him to forgive me—I’ll do anything. Please leave me alone.”
Marcus stopped abruptly in his pacing.
“Look here, Sophie,” he said wearily. “I can’t budge her…Do you suppose—well, if she won’t marry she won’t. I’m willing to do everything in my power but I can’t drag her to the altar.”
“Dorcas is twenty-four,” said Sophie. “After all …” She stopped, poured coffee and took the cup to Dorcas. “Drink this, Dorcas. Jevan has been on the telephone. Jevan as well as practically everybody we know,” interpolated Sophie bitterly. “But Jevan——”
“Jevan. I must talk to him. I must explain. He’ll understand.”
“Oh, will he,” said Sophie. “Well—you’ll have a chance to talk to him, Dorcas. He’s here.”
Dorcas turned quickly. Jevan stood in the doorway. He came instantly into the room. He was dressed and ready for the wedding. What the well-dressed bridegroom will wear, he had thought grimly, hurrying, with young Willy Devany trying to help and getting in the way. Willy was waiting now—frantically, probably, watch in hand—at the church.
He looked at his own watch swiftly. He was tallish and rather well built; he had straight black eyebrows and a straight mouth which then looked angry. He was a little pale below brown skin but Dorcas didn’t see that.
“Jevan—Jevan, I can’t! Forgive me——”
Jevan’s narrowed gray eyes—dark eyes with a spark of light in them—flickered once at Sophie and at Marcus. He jerked his chin toward the hall.
“I’ve done everything I can. I’m terribly sorry, my boy——”
“Thanks, Marcus. If you’ll get out …”
“Why, by all means, Jevan. By all means.”
Sophie, at the door, said: “It’s ten after eleven.”
Jevan himself closed the door. Closed it, looked at Dorcas and came to her. He sat down on the dressing table bench near her.
“Drink the coffee, Dorcas.”
“Jevan, I must explain——”
“Drink it.”
She did, one hot gulp after another. He got up, went to the tray and brought it back, placing it on the dressing table. There was another cup on the tray and he poured some coffee for himself, sugared it and took a sandwich.
“Jevan——”
“Finish your coffee.”
She did that, too, helplessly, wearily. He ate several sandwiches. The little french clock ticked away on the table where Sophie had left it. The telephone buzzed again and stopped.
Dorcas put down her cup and leaned forward; she must explain, she must make him understand, he would understand.
He turned instantly.
“That’s a good girl. Now then, Dorcas, get your clothes on.”
“Oh no. You don’t understand. I can’t——”
“Hurry up.”
There was a queer, quick little clutch at Dorcas’ heart. He couldn’t possibly mean to …
“Jevan, you’ve got to listen to me. Ronald did that because of me. It’s all my fault. Last night——”
“It’s a quarter after eleven. It will take at least twenty minutes to get to St Chrystofer’s, maybe longer with the noon traffic. Hurry.”
“I cannot marry. Not with Ronald——”
He got up. He seemed very tall. There was a flash back in his slate-gray eyes like lightning in a storm.
“There’s no time for talk. Get dressed or, by God, I’ll carry you down to the car as you are.”
“Jevan——”
He gave a swift glance about the room and
Sophie, also, was dressed for the wedding. Beautifully, in brown with fur and a small, smart hat.
She put down the tray and took the clock from Cary’s hands. “Go and get dressed,” she said sternly to Cary. “Do you see this clock, Dorcas?”
“Won’t you go away? Won’t you leave me alone? … I’ll talk to Jevan. I’ll telephone now and ask him to forgive me—I’ll do anything. Please leave me alone.”
Marcus stopped abruptly in his pacing.
“Look here, Sophie,” he said wearily. “I can’t budge her…Do you suppose—well, if she won’t marry she won’t. I’m willing to do everything in my power but I can’t drag her to the altar.”
“Dorcas is twenty-four,” said Sophie. “After all …” She stopped, poured coffee and took the cup to Dorcas. “Drink this, Dorcas. Jevan has been on the telephone. Jevan as well as practically everybody we know,” interpolated Sophie bitterly. “But Jevan——”
“Jevan. I must talk to him. I must explain. He’ll understand.”
“Oh, will he,” said Sophie. “Well—you’ll have a chance to talk to him, Dorcas. He’s here.”
Dorcas turned quickly. Jevan stood in the doorway. He came instantly into the room. He was dressed and ready for the wedding. What the well-dressed bridegroom will wear, he had thought grimly, hurrying, with young Willy Devany trying to help and getting in the way. Willy was waiting now—frantically, probably, watch in hand—at the church.
He looked at his own watch swiftly. He was tallish and rather well built; he had straight black eyebrows and a straight mouth which then looked angry. He was a little pale below brown skin but Dorcas didn’t see that.
“Jevan—Jevan, I can’t! Forgive me——”
Jevan’s narrowed gray eyes—dark eyes with a spark of light in them—flickered once at Sophie and at Marcus. He jerked his chin toward the hall.
“I’ve done everything I can. I’m terribly sorry, my boy——”
“Thanks, Marcus. If you’ll get out …”
“Why, by all means, Jevan. By all means.”
Sophie, at the door, said: “It’s ten after eleven.”
Jevan himself closed the door. Closed it, looked at Dorcas and came to her. He sat down on the dressing table bench near her.
“Drink the coffee, Dorcas.”
“Jevan, I must explain——”
“Drink it.”
She did, one hot gulp after another. He got up, went to the tray and brought it back, placing it on the dressing table. There was another cup on the tray and he poured some coffee for himself, sugared it and took a sandwich.
“Jevan——”
“Finish your coffee.”
She did that, too, helplessly, wearily. He ate several sandwiches. The little french clock ticked away on the table where Sophie had left it. The telephone buzzed again and stopped.
Dorcas put down her cup and leaned forward; she must explain, she must make him understand, he would understand.
He turned instantly.
“That’s a good girl. Now then, Dorcas, get your clothes on.”
“Oh no. You don’t understand. I can’t——”
“Hurry up.”
There was a queer, quick little clutch at Dorcas’ heart. He couldn’t possibly mean to …
“Jevan, you’ve got to listen to me. Ronald did that because of me. It’s all my fault. Last night——”
“It’s a quarter after eleven. It will take at least twenty minutes to get to St Chrystofer’s, maybe longer with the noon traffic. Hurry.”
“I cannot marry. Not with Ronald——”
He got up. He seemed very tall. There was a flash back in his slate-gray eyes like lightning in a storm.
“There’s no time for talk. Get dressed or, by God, I’ll carry you down to the car as you are.”
“Jevan——”
He gave a swift glance about the room and
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