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"I want him to go," she added fiercely, "just as soon as he finds he doesn't love me enough." "Um," Miss M'Gann answered. "Lucky you haven't any children. That's where the rub comes." Alves straightened herself with a little haughtiness. "It wouldn't make any difference to him. He would do right by them if he had them."
"Alves." It seemed pitifully inadequate a few wavering lines to tell the tale of the volumes in her heart. But with a sigh she pushed back the chair and gathered her hat and cape. Once more she hesitated, and seeing that the fire in the stove was low, replenished it.
He did not dare to write them of his necessity; even his friends would be suspicious of his failure to gain a foothold in this hospitable, liberal metropolis. He rose at last to escape these gloomy thoughts. Alves followed him without a word. He did not offer her his arm, as he was wont to do when they walked out here beyond the paths where people came.
Sommers dropped her arm and strode forward. "What did she know?" he asked harshly. "I don't see how she could know anything except suspicions. You know she was queer and a great talker." Sommers's face worked. He was about to speak when Alves went on. "I told Jane we had never been married; she asked me where we were married. I suppose I ought not to have told her. I didn't want to."
From the loneliness of life, the sultry squalor of the city, the abortive folly of the mob, he fled to the one place that was still sweet in all this wilderness of men. The cottage windows were dark when he arrived an hour later, but Alves met him at the door. "I have been waiting for you," she said calmly. "I knew you would come as soon as you could."
"The woman shook him time of the strikes, when his money was gone." "Well, isn't that what you wanted?" Mrs. Ducharme nodded her head slowly. "She made him bad. He drinks, awful sometimes, and whenever I say anything, he says he's going back to Peory, to that woman." Alves waited for the expected request for money.
Sommers tried to answer. He felt like talking to this warm-hearted woman; he wanted to talk, but he could not phrase the complex feeling in his heart. Everything about Alves had something in it he could not make another, even the most sympathetic soul in the world, understand. It was like trying to explain an impression of a whole life.
Sommers looked at his watch, and said: "We might as well go ashore here. That was rather a narrow chance. I must look in at the Keystone to see how Webber is. I shouldn't wonder if he had typhoid." "I wish we could go on," Alves replied regretfully. "I was hoping the lane ran on and on for miles." She put her hands under his coat and leaned against him, looking wistfully into the arctic sea.
"Love you, love you, love you, Alves," he repeated in savage iteration. "Now, " he kissed her lips. They were no longer cold. "You are mine, mine, do you understand? Nothing shall touch you. That has passed!" For a moment she looked at him in question. But instantly her face smiled in content, and she flashed back his passion. She kissed him, drawing him down closer and closer into her warm self.
I've been a long time in coming to see you," her voice rippled on cordially, while Alves watched her. "But we've been out of the city so much of the time, California, North Carolina, and abroad." Alves nodded. The young woman's ease of manner and luxurious dress intimidated her.
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