He strides towards the door, and then looks back at her.
"You understand about my going?" he says; "that it is decided, I mean?"
"As you will," says she, her glance on the ground. There is such a total lack of emotion in her whole air that it might suggest itself to an acute student of human nature that she is doing her very utmost to suppress even the smallest sign of it. But, alas! Baltimore is not that student.
"Be just:" says he sternly. "It is as you will—not as I. It is you who are driving me into exile."
He has turned his back, and has his hand on the handle of the door in the act of opening it. At this instant she makes a move toward him, holding out her hands, but as suddenly suppresses herself. When he turns again to say a last word she is standing where he last saw her, pale and impassive as a statue.
"There will be some matters to arrange," says he, "before my going. I have telegraphed to Hansard" (his lawyer), "he will be down in the morning. There will be a few papers for you to sign to-morrow——"
"Papers?"
"My will and your maintenance whilst I am away; and matters that will concern the child's future."
"His future. That means——"
"That in all probability when I have started I shall never see his face again—or yours."