There was a stubborn streak in
Ford Campbell. She had said some bitter things, in her anger. Perhaps
she had not entirely believed them herself, and perhaps Mrs. Kate had
not been accurately quoted by her precocious young son; she may not have
said that she was disappointed in Ford. They might not have believed
whatever it was Dick told them, and they might still have full
confidence in him, Ford Campbell. Still, there was the stubborn streak
which would not explain or defend. So he left the table, and went into
his own room without any word save a muttered excuse; and that in spite
of the fact that Josephine looked full at him, at last, and with a
wistfulness that moved him almost to the point of taking her in his arms
and kissing away the worry--if he could.
He went up to the table where stood the jug, looked at it, lifted it,
and set it down again. Then he lifted it again and pulled the cork out
with a jerk, wondering if the sound of it had reached through the thin
partition to the ears of Josephine; he was guilty of hoping so. He put
back the cork--this time carefully--walked to the outer door, turned the
key, opened the door, and closed it again with a slam.
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