“Afraid of—myself. I talked to you that first day we met—more than I should. So you know me. I am the same girl I was then, but I am not the same girl. Then I knew it would be possible for me to choose the—bitter way. To choose it deliberately as a way of escape. But I did not know then how bitter that way would be. Now I know I should not choose it deliberately, but be forced into it by—by myself.”
“You mustn’t talk that way, I won’t have you say that sort of thing about—my girl.”
“It’s true, and I am afraid. Can’t your business step aside for to-night?”
“It can’t, Marie. If it were an ordinary night or an ordinary matter that calls me, I would stay.” He stopped, considered. It was his nature to speak little of his affairs, to offer few confidences. To tell Marie the truth seemed his only honorable way of escape from the dilemma. “I’ll tell you about it,” he said, with sudden decision, “and you will understand.”
Then he told her, from the beginning in his father’s library. He described his difficulties, his war with the Clothespin Club, his bitterer war with Michael Moran. He told her what Moran had done and was seeking to do. He told her his measures of defense and of counter-attack, and particularly the plan for to-night. “And so you see,” he ended, “I must go.”
“Yes,” she said, slowly, “you must go. And Michael Moran has done those things? You must hate him!”
“Yes,” said Jim, “but not for what he has done to me. I hate him because—” He hesitated, unable to bring himself to utter the thought in connection with Marie.
“Because?” Marie questioned.
“Because,” said Jim, between his teeth, “he is planning and working to make you take the choice you have talked about without appreciating what you were saying.”
“Yes,” said Marie, her eyes shut as though to hide from her a painful sight—“yes, he is doing that. And I have known what I was saying, Jim. I know what I am saying now. I wish you could have stayed with me to-night, Jim. I’m afraid—afraid.” She arose and ran from the room.