“I won’t!” she cried, stamping her foot. “I won’t! I won’t!”
If only she could get away from the room before she succumbed to the mounting temptation, she was sure that she could fight it off for the rest of the afternoon. She had gained that much, at least; but she must keep occupied, constantly occupied, where she could not have access to it or see the black case in which she kept the morphine.
She triumphed by running away from it. She almost hurled herself down the stairs and into the patio. Custer Pennington was not there. She must find him before the craving dragged her back to the rooms above. Already she could feel her will weakening. It was the old, old story that she knew so well.
“What’s the use?” the voice of the tempter asked. “Just a little one! It will make you feel so much better. What’s the use?”
She turned toward the door again; she had her hand upon the knob, and then she swung back and called him.
“Mr. Pennington!”
If he did not hear, she knew that she would go up into her rooms defeated.
“Coming!” he answered from beyond the arched entrance of the patio, and then he stepped into view.
She almost ran to him.
“Was I very long?” she asked. “Did I keep you waiting?”