"Are you going to be here long?" was Orde's next question.
"About a month."
"I am coming to see you," announced Orde. "Good-night."
He took her hand, dropped it, and followed the others into the hall,
leaving her standing by the lamp. She watched him until the outer
door had closed behind him. Not once did he look back. Jane
Hubbard, returning after a moment from the hall, found her at the
piano again, her head slightly one side, playing with painful and
accurate exactness a simple one-finger melody.
Orde walked home down the hill in company with the Incubus. Neither
had anything to say; Orde because he was absorbed in thought, the
Incubus because nothing occurred to draw from him his one remark.
Their feet clipped sharply against the tar walks, or rang more
hollow on the boards. Overhead the stars twinkled through the
still-bare branches of the trees. With few exceptions the houses
were dark. People "retired" early in Redding. An occasional hall
light burned dimly, awaiting some one's return. At the gate of the
Orde place, Orde roused himself to say good-night. He let himself
into the dim-lighted hall, hung up his hat, and turned out the gas.
For some time he stood in the dark, quite motionless; then, with the
accuracy of long habitude, he walked confidently to the narrow
stairs and ascended them.
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