Alarm was quickening in her. He seemed to be withdrawing into dark halls where she could not see to follow. He was building the house of his heart, yet there were apparently other edifices, fortresses or dungeons, it might be, where he walked alone.
"When you are free?" she insisted.
"When Pete has got his gait and I needn't back him. When grannie is dead—dear grannie! Then I shall do my one free act."
She was so shaken that it seemed as if the night itself terrified her, not he alone.
"Not"—she paused, and then whispered it. "Do you mean—to kill yourself?"
He laughed.
"Not on your life! I am going to get all that's coming to me. But I am going to get it in my own particular way."
"I cannot understand you."
"Of course you can't. But remember all of you have something to bring to life. You give as well as take. You have your beauty and your voice. Peter has his brush. Grannie has her mothering gift. That's better than being a queen. There's power in it. Your prince has his inheritance. I have had to look about and choose my gift. I chose it long ago."
"Is it something that makes you happy?"