"Yes, yes"—and he released one hand—"I will, if you'll say you forgive me, Francie. I've made an awful mess of it, I know—"
They rose together, and the other hand was freed. It was the right hand, and she returned it to him immediately.
"Good-bye!" she said, between clenched teeth.
He held her tightly once more.
"May I come and see you again? May I write? I can say it better in writing."
"You have said all that needs to be said. There is no necessity to write. If you write to me, I shall return the letter unopened."
"But why? It is surely absurd for us to put on airs of dignity with one another. Francie, you don't mean us to part like this?"
She stepped quickly across the hearthrug and, with a passionate gesture, pressed the button of the bell—evidently to summon Willis to show him out. So he took up his hat, offended in his turn, and for the first time feeling fairly easy in his mind as to the way he was treating her. But the tragedy of the moment was turned to vulgar comedy by her alarm at the fact that she had struck the bell before relighting the pink lamps.
"Oh, where are the matches?" she whispered excitedly. "I can't find them."
"Here—here!" he cried, fumbling for his own pocket box.