"Loneliness," she insisted. Her little chin was now in her little hand, and her dim face upturned.
And suddenly a sensation of absolute and marvellous terror seized Edward Henry. He was more afraid than he had ever been—and yet once or twice in his life he had felt fear. His sense of true perspective—one of his most precious qualities—returned. He thought: "I've got to get out of this." Well, the door was not locked. It was only necessary to turn the handle, and security lay on the other side of the door! He had but to rise and walk. And he could not. He might just as well have been manacled in a prison-cell. He was under an enchantment.
"A man," murmured Elsie, "a man can never realize the loneliness—" She ceased.
He stirred uneasily.
"About this play," he found himself saying. And yet why should he mention the play in his fright? He pretended to himself not to know [237] why. But he knew why. His instinct had seen in the topic of the play the sole avenue of salvation.
"A wonderful thing, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes," he said. And then—most astonishingly to himself—added: "I've decided to do it."
"We knew you would," she said calmly. "At any rate I did.... You'll open with it, of course."
"Yes," he answered desperately. And proceeded, with the most extraordinary bravery, "If you'll act in it."
Immediately on hearing these last words issue from his mouth he knew that a fool had uttered them, and that the bravery was mere rashness. For Elsie's responding gesture reinspired him afresh with the exquisite terror which he had already begun to conjure away.