“So I have,” retorted I. “But my mood—please oblige me this once.”
She let the cigarette fall into the box, closed the lid gently, leaned against the table, folded her arms upon her bosom and looked full at me. I was as acutely conscious of her every movement, of the very coming and going of the breath at her nostrils, as a man on the operating-table is conscious of the slightest gesture of the surgeon.
“You are—suffering!” she said, and her voice was like the flow of oil upon a burn. “I have never seen you like this. I didn't believe you capable of—of much feeling.”
I could not trust myself to speak. If Bob Corey could have looked in on that scene, could have understood it, how amazed he would have been!
“What happened down town to-day?” she went on. “Tell me, if I may know.”
“I'll tell you what I didn't think, ten minutes ago, I'd tell any human being,” said I. “They've got me strapped down in the press. At ten o'clock in the morning—precisely at ten—they're going to put on the screws.” I laughed. “I guess they'll have me squeezed pretty dry before noon.”
She shivered.
“So, you see,” I continued, “I don't deserve any credit for giving you up. I only anticipate you by about twenty-four hours. Mine's a deathbed repentance.”
“I'd thought of that,” said she reflectively. Presently she added: “Then, it is true.” And I knew Sammy had given her some hint that prepared her for my confession.
“Yes—I can't go blustering through the matrimonial market,” replied I. “I've been thrown out. I'm a beggar at the gates.”