Grimm held himself limp and
inert, for a strange fragrance was enveloping him--a fragrance he well
knew.
The hands were fumbling at his breast again, and there was the sharp
crackle of paper. At first he didn't understand, then he knew that the
woman had pinned a paper to the lapel of his coat. Finally she
straightened up, and took two steps away from him, after which came a
pause. His keenly attuned ears caught her faint breathing, then the
rustle of her skirts as she turned back. She was leaning over him
again--her lips touched his forehead, barely; again there was a quick
rustling of skirts, the door creaked, and--silence, deep, oppressive,
overwhelming silence.
Isabel! Was he dreaming? And then he ceased wondering and fell to
remembering her kiss--light as air--and the softly spoken "Thank God!"
She did care, then! She _had_ understood, that day!
The kiss of a woman beloved is a splendid heart tonic. Mr. Grimm
straightened up suddenly on the couch, himself again. He touched the
slip of paper which she had pinned to his coat to make sure it was not
all a dream, after which he recalled the fact that while he had heard
the door creak before she went out he had not heard it creak afterward.
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