"Culver!" exclaimed Norman. "I don't want you to go into Culver's office. He's a scoundrel."
Again Dorothy smiled faintly. Norman colored. "I know he stands well—as well as I do. But I can't trust you with him. That sounds ridiculous but—it's true."
"I think I can trust myself," she said quietly. Her grave regard fixed his. "Don't you?" she asked.
His eyes lowered. "Yes," he replied. "But—why shouldn't you come back with us? I'll see that you get a much better position than Culver's giving you."
Over her face crept one of those mysterious transformations that made her so bafflingly fascinating to him. Behind that worldly-wise, satirical mask was she mocking at him? All she said was: "I couldn't work there. I've settled it with Mr. Tetlow. I go to work to-morrow."
"To-morrow!" he cried, starting up.
"And I've found a place to live. Pat and Molly; will take care of things for you here."
"Dorothy! You don't mean this? You're not going to break off?"
"I shan't see you again—except as we may meet by accident."
"Do you realize what you're saying means to me?" he cried. "Don't you know how I love you?" He advanced toward her. She stood and waited passively, looking at him. "Dorothy—my love—do you want to kill me?"