His quiet nature had depths. They had never been stirred till then. The
child-love had been budding there ready for blossom. It had been fed by
faith and ripened by association. Passion now brought it to fruition.
Madeleine Presson had appealed only to one side of him. This girl
rounded out the whole philosophy of love. She was not a divinity. His
nature did not crave divinity. In his strength, sincerity,
ingenuousness, his man's soul, primitive as the free woods, required the
mate--one to be cherished and protected. And so, now, when all his soul
was stirred, this girl, so bitterly in need of protection--the girl whom
the years had endeared to him--came into his heart to reign there.
Words, emotion choked him. But he could not wait, then. She saw
something in his eyes she had never seen there till that moment. But
before she could understand he carried her along with him.
"Come! I can't wait!" he cried.
When he flung open the door of the committee-room the men in it were
standing in silence. Presson had picked up the "Thornton Bill" and was
reading it, scowling.
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