"Arthur, you know I want you—always."
Without replying, he opened the door and stepped outside. He was really going, his foot sounded on the flags. With a smothered cry she reached his side, clutched at him, half sobbing, drawing him back with all her strength. He resisted stonily.
"Don't make a scene, Thérèse, someone will hear you."
"Then come back. If you don't, I don't mind what happens, or who hears!"
Sulkily he took a step inside the door, then raised his head, listening. A car had come into the drive, was crunching around the gravel to the garage on the far side of the house.
"S'sh—it's Roger. Close the door quietly."
With a quick movement, Thérèse switched off the lamp.
"Damned silly, that," he whispered. "Why did you do that?"
"No, it is best. Wait—they will soon go upstairs."
They stood silent, listening. After a few moments they heard the front door close, then footsteps mounting the stairs, after which no sound whatever. Five minutes went by, while Thérèse pressed tightly against the unresponsive young man, clinging to his hand. At the end of that time he drew away from her.