As she stood there, flushed and panting, trying to consider the situation, he came leisurely up to her.
“You can’t go back now—not after that telegram you sent your aunt,” he said. “There’s nowhere for you to go, except with me. You haven’t even your ticket or your purse. You gave them to me to keep —and I mean to keep them!”
“I don’t care—I’ll walk,” she retorted, in a trembling voice.
“Walk where?” he inquired. “You told your aunt you were going away to get married. You’ll have hard work explaining that you changed your mind; and you’ll have hard work getting home at all without a penny. Come! Here’s the train. Don’t be a little fool!”
The long, mournful hoot of the approaching engine came to her ears.
“Oh, give me my purse!” she cried in terror and despair. “Oh, please! Oh, please, Ladislaw!”
“I won’t,” he said. “If you won’t come with me, I’ll leave you here alone. You’ll be sorry, Ethel. You’ll lose your chance to be a singer, and you’ll lose more than that. Your aunt won’t take this very well.”
She looked around in anguish. The ticket office was closed for the night, and there were only strangers on the platform. All about that little lighted oasis were the woods and fields and tiny distant houses, filled with more strangers.
V
“Ethel!” cried a voice.