VII
Darrow was still standing on her threshold. As she put the question he entered the room and closed the door behind him.
His heart was beating a little faster than usual and he had no clear idea of what he was about to do or say, beyond the definite conviction that, whatever passing impulse of expiation moved him, he would not be fool enough to tell her that he had not sent her letter. He knew that most wrongdoing works, on the whole, less mischief than its useless confession; and this was clearly a case where a passing folly might be turned, by avowal, into a serious offense.
“I’m so sorry—so sorry; but you must let me help you.... You will let me help you?” he said.
He took her hands and pressed them together between his, counting on a friendly touch to help out the insufficiency of words. He felt her yield slightly to his clasp, and hurried on without giving her time to answer.
“Isn’t it a pity to spoil our good time together by regretting anything you might have done to prevent our having it?”
She drew back, freeing her hands. Her face, losing its look of appealing confidence, was suddenly sharpened by distrust.
“You didn’t forget to post my letter?”
Darrow stood before her, constrained and ashamed, and ever more keenly aware that the betrayal of his distress must be a greater offense than its concealment.
“What an insinuation!” he cried, throwing out his hands with a laugh.