Kit went quickly up the staircase and along the parquetted floor of the passage, not loitering for fear she should not go at all. Jack was standing in front of his fireplace, an opened letter in his hand. As she came in he looked up.
Kit had advanced a few steps into the room, but stopped there, looking at him with eyes of mute entreaty. She had not stopped to think over what she should say, and though her lips moved she could not speak.
"What is it?" he said.
Kit did not reply, but her eyes dropped before his.
"What is the matter?" he asked again. "Are you ill, Kit?"
Then the inward storm broke. She half ran across the room and flung her arms round his neck.
"I wish I were dead!" she cried. "Jack, Jack—oh, Jack!"