Her voice quivered. "You may not think so."
"Can't it wait? Darling, you mustn't sit here with me at this hour of night with all the house asleep."
"For me, there's no one in the house but you, and you are awake." She put out her left hand, but dropped it when he did not take it. She went on, with the hand at her throat. "There's a great gap in my life I've never told you of. I don't feel honest. I want to tell you everything to-night, and go on clear."
"Are you sure you're not asleep now, Theresa darling?" He drew nearer, and she leaned against him.
"Basil, help me."
He held her off. "Not now. You must go back. You are over-tired, dear. You've not been well all day."
"It's my soul that's sick," she said.
"It will be better in the morning. Hush! Did you hear something?" He opened the door and listened. "Mother sleeps so lightly. Go back, Theresa. Good-night, darling—good-night. Why, your eyes are heavy with sleep."
"No," she said, and she had the look of someone starved—"no, that's with crying."
He seized her hand and drew her limp figure to him. "Why, my sweet—why? Because we didn't have a happy day? Darling, I'll think no more of it. And you shall tell me everything in the morning. Only go now. You mustn't wander about like this at night."