"Dan," she pleaded, "don't be mad at me. I promise you I won't go to any
more places like that. I knew it wasn't right all along. But I got to go
on with the 'Follies,' It's the chance I been waiting for all these
months. Maybe it's the only one that'll ever come to me! You ain't going
to stand in my way, are you, Dan?"
"Tell me who was with you to-night!"
"No!" she whispered. "I can't. You mustn't ask me. I promise you I won't
do it again. I don't want to go away leaving you thinking bad of me."
His clenched hands suddenly began to tremble so violently that he had to
clasp them tight to keep her from noticing.
"I better get used to--to not thinking 'bout you at all," he said,
looking at her with the stern eyes of a young ascetic.
For a time they knelt there side by side, and neither spoke. For over a
year Dan had been like one standing still on the banks of a muddy stream,
his eyes blinded to all but the shining goal opposite, while Nance was
like one who plunges headlong into the current, often losing sight of the
goal altogether, but now and again catching glimpses of it that sent her
stumbling, fighting, falling forward.
At the sound of voices below they both scrambled to their feet. Dr.
Adair and the man from the yards came hurriedly up the steps together,
the former drawing off his gloves as he came. He was a compact, elderly
man whose keen observant eyes swept the room and its occupants at a
glance. He listened to Nance's broken recital of what had happened, cut
her short when he had obtained the main facts, and proceeded to examine
the patient.
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