"Don't let that be your last word to me," says the young man, passionately. "Joyce, hear me! There must be some excuse for me."
"Excuse?" says she, looking back at him over her shoulder, her lovely face full of curious wonder.
"Yes—yes! I was mad! I didn't mean a word I said—I swear it! I——Joyce, forgive me!"
The words, though whispered, burst from him with a despairing vehemence. He would have caught her hand but that she lifts her eyes to his—such eyes!
There is a little pause, and then:
"Oh, no! Never—never!" says she.
Her tone is very low and clear—not angry, not even hasty or reproachful. Only very sad and certain. It kills all hope.
She goes quickly through the open doorway, closing it behind her. The faint, ghostly sound of her footfalls can be heard as she crosses the hall. After a moment even this light sound ceases. She is indeed gone! It is all over!
With a kind of desire to hide herself, Joyce has crept into her bed, sore at heart, angry, miserable. No hope that sleep will again visit her has led her to this step, and, indeed, would sleep be desirable? What a treacherous part it had played when last it fell on her!