Crossing the living room, Custer rapped on the door through which he had seen Grace go, calling her by name. Receiving no reply, he flung the door open. Facing him was the girl he was engaged to marry.
With her back against the dresser, Grace stood at the opposite end of the room. Her disheveled hair fell about her face, which was overspread with a sickly pallor. Her wild, staring eyes were fixed upon him. Her mouth, drooping at the corners, tremulously depicted a combination of terror and anger.
“Grace!” he exclaimed.
She still stood staring at him for a moment before she spoke.
“What do you mean,” she demanded at last, “by breaking into my bedroom? Get out! I don’t want to see you. I don’t want you here!”
He crossed the room and put a hand upon her shoulder.
“My God, Grace,” he cried, “what is the matter? What has happened to you?”
“Nothing has happened,” she mumbled. “There is nothing the matter with me. I suppose you want me to go back with the rest of the rubes. I am through with the damned country—and country jakes, too!” she added.
“You mean that you don’t want me here, Grace? That you don’t love me?” he asked.
“Love you?” She broke into a disagreeable laugh. “Why, you poor rube, I never want to see you again!”