But the man came into the field of light which shone around her through the door--came closer, reaching out his hands to her. She heard him struggling with his own voice, trying to speak. At last: "Aurora! Aurora! Let me in! Will you let me in?" She threw open the door so that the light might come. But it was late. The town slept. No one saw the light. No one saw the man who entered her door. He came on slowly, bending down, groaning, almost sobbing, it seemed to her. He entered the room, sank down into a chair. He was that pitiable thing, a man with his nerves set loose by cataclysm of the emotions. Not less than this had William Henderson met this day. It had shortened actually his physical stature, had altered every line in his face. He was twenty years and more older now than when she had seen him last. In one short day William Henderson had burned down to a speck in the cosmic plan. He had learned for himself how little is any man. And vanity torn out by the roots--a megalomaniac egotism done away by a capital operation--a life-long self-content, an ingrown selfishness, all wrenched out at once--that sort of thing takes its toll in the doing. William Henderson was paying his debts all at once--with interest accrued, as Hod Brooks had said to him. It was an old, old, ashen-faced man who turned to her at last, as he came into the little lighted room. Neither had spoken since he came within. The door now was closed back of him. No one without could have any inkling of what went on within this little room.... The drawn curtains ... the low light ... the man ... the woman ... midnight! All which had been here twenty years before for setting, that same now was here! And if there was ruin now of what here once was fresh and fair, if ruin lay about them now, who had wrought that ruin? ... Yes, it had been here. It was at this very place--when she was just starting, struggling, young--all the vague, soft, mysterious, compelling impulses of youth and life just now hers--so strange, so strong, so sweet, so ineffable, so indispensable, so little understood.... That had been his signal! And when he had rapped before--when he was young and comely, not old and ashen--she could no more have helped opening the door than the white wisps from the cottonwoods could cease to pass upon the air in their ancient seeking, blown by the spirit of life, coming from thither, passing thence, under an impulse soft, sweet, gentle, unsought but irresistible. "Will!" she said at length. "Will, what's wrong? What have you done? What does this mean?" In some sense, swiftly, the past seemed back again, its twenty years effaced, so that she thought in terms of other days. He raised his head. "What, you speak to me? You said 'Will'? Oh, Aurie, Aurie, don't!--I can't stand it. I'm not good enough for this." "What's happened?" she insisted. "Why are you here?"