Again he shook his head slowly: "No, Deane, it is not that. The town is all right—it is not that."
He paused, brooding, then went on: "Last night I did not sleep—much—thinking about it. It's all my fault.... I do not fit. So I am going away, going to try to find my own place, somehow."
Tortured by his patient smile, she followed him out into the dim hall, half blinded by her burning tears. She sobbed unrestrainedly as he slipped into his overcoat.
He came to her, his hand outstretched, his voice husky.
"Good-by, Deane-girl," he said.
Taking his hand she stepped close to him, misty-eyed, atremble.
"Good-by, Di—Oh, Dick! Don't go! Don't go way over to those awful Islands!"
He steadied her with an arm about the shaking shoulders. She leaned full against him and in the soft contact his pulses leaped. He fought to resist the temptation to take advantage of her mood, knew that for the moment she was his if he but pressed his claim.
Suddenly she looked up at him, glorious in her grief and surrender.
"Shall I—do you want me to—to—wait?"