I had turned away, but I faced her again.
"I am—afraid—I love you," I said. "It was not in the compact, I did not mean to do it, but I'm afraid—I love you."
She entered her door and I passed to my room. Pulling off my clothes at haphazard I threw them on a chair and donned my pajamas. The bed was hard. I turned every way to no purpose. Sleep would not come. At last I sat up, then opened my door noiselessly and stepped barefooted upon the veranda.
Marjorie's light was still burning. The objects in her room showed with perfect distinctness through her screen door.
I paused as if petrified at the sight before me. In her white nightrobes she was kneeling by the bedside, her face buried in her hands.
It was beauty prostrate before its God, doubtless uttering a petition that he would protect her from evil.
I paced up and down the veranda noiselessly for half an hour. When I paused again before Miss May's door, the light was extinguished and I could see nothing.
"Marjorie," I whispered.
"Forgive me. I will not offend you again."