He lost his head completely. All the blood in his body rushed to his
throat. Something sang through every fiber of him.
"Miss Lady!" he cried, catching the hands she extended in both of his,
then as she drew back from his too ardent look, he remembered. "I beg
your pardon of course it's Mrs. Queerington, now."
"Not to you, Don. When did you come? Are you well again? Didn't any
one know you were coming? Have the others seen you?"
She poured forth her questions eagerly, as if she feared another
pause. She was making a desperate effort to appear easy, but her
eagerness betrayed her. She repeated that she had no idea he was in
America, and took refuge in a general assurance that everybody would
be so glad to have him home again.
Donald, lean and tanned, stood silent, watching her searchingly. His
deep-set eyes were clearer and steadier than of old, but they were no
longer the eyes of a boy. He was like a mariner whose ship has been
wrecked. He had nothing worse to dread and nothing to hope for. He
simply desired to see the rock on which his life craft had smashed.
Miss Lady continued to ask questions, but she evidently did not always
heed the answers as she asked some of them twice over.
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