He has not, however, gone three yards down the corridor when the door is again opened, and Lady Baltimore's voice calls after him:
"Baltimore!" Her tone is sharp, high-agonized—the tone of one strung to the highest pitch of despair. It startles him. He turns to look at her. She is standing, framed in by the doorway, and one hand is grasping the woodwork with a hold so firm that the knuckles are showing white. With the other hand she beckons him to approach her. He obeys her. He is even so frightened at the strange gray look in her face that he draws her bodily into the room again, shutting the door with a pressure of the hand he can best spare.
"What is it?" says he, looking down at her.
She has managed to so far overcome the faintness that has been threatening her as to shake him off and stand free, leaning against a chair behind her.
"Don't go," says she, hoarsely.
It is impossible to misunderstand her meaning. It has nothing whatever to do with his interview with the lawyer waiting so patiently down below, but with that final wandering of his into regions unknown. She is as white as death.
"How is this, Isabel?" asks he. He is as white as she is now. "Do you know what you are saying? This is a moment of excitement; you do not comprehend what your words mean."
"Stay! Stay for his sake."
"Is that all?" says he, his eyes searching hers.