“Wait,” she said, drawing herself away from him—“wait.”
“Ah, Miss Virginia,” he said, in his breezy, gentle voice, “we will soon have you out of this. You won’t know yourself in two weeks.”
“Wait,” she said, her great eyes burning into his.
“My poor little girl,” he said, almost with tenderness, “I am afraid you have over-estimated your strength. You had better let me go now. I will come to-morrow whenever you send for me.”
“Wait,” she said a fourth time, in that strange, still voice.
He had a horrified doubt in regard to her reason as he took the chair to which she pointed and sat down facing her.
“Well,” he said, with an assumption of gayety which he was far from feeling, “what is it? Am I to be scolded for anything?”
“Do you believe in torment?” said the girl. She kept her hollow, stirless eyes on his. There was an absence of movement about her almost oppressive. She seemed not even to breathe.
“My dear child,” said Roden, nervously, “do choose a more cheerful subject. Really, you know, it isn’t good for you to be morbid now. Let’s talk of something jolly and pleasant. Don’t you want to hear how the mokes are coming along? And Bonnibel, poor old girl! I’m afraid her feelings will be awfully hurt when I tell her you didn’t ask after her.”
“I s’pose ev’ybordy bleeves in torment that has felt it,” said the girl. She had not moved in anywise. Her deep, still eyes yet rested on his face. She seemed drinking his looks with hers. “I’ve sorter come ter think as hell’s in th’ hearts o’ people,” she went on. “There ain’t no flames ez kin burn like them in people’s hearts.”