The man sat back in his chair.
“The door’s open, Joan. Why can’t you walk out?”
“Because,” said the girl slowly, “because I haven’t the nerve.” She paused there, wide-eyed, as though plunged in bitter meditation. After a moment she continued absently. “There’s nothing on earth to stop me, but I know that for me to leave him would be against his will, and I can’t stand up against that.”
“But he needn’t know, Joan. You can just fade away and never see him again.”
“I know,” said Joan wearily. “I’ve got it all worked out. It’s the easiest thing in the world. We leave for Paris to-morrow”—Peregrine started—“by the evening train. Separate sleepers, of course: he likes plenty of room. I’ve only to leave the train at some station during the night. . . . We’ve taken rooms at Paris—I took them, of course. When he gets there he finds awaiting him a letter to say I’ve gone. . . . It adds that so long as he doesn’t molest me a thousand pounds a quarter will be paid into his account, but that if he tries to find me the allowance will stop. . . . It’s the easiest thing on earth. I worked it out months ago, and I’ve had chance after chance, for we’re always moving about. But I can’t do it, Perry. He’s broken my nerve.”
Peregrine set his teeth.
“I know what you mean, Joan. But——”
“No, you don’t, Perry. No one who’s not been through it could ever understand. Why should one need any nerve to step out of hell? That’s all it is. Hell can’t follow—won’t even try to follow. There’s nothing to fear. I’ve everything to gain and I can’t lose. But I can’t take the plunge. . . . ‘But there is no plunge,’ you’d say. I know. But then your soul’s your own. Mine isn’t my own, Perry. . . . And that’s why you can’t understand.”
“I—do—understand.”
“How can you?”