She drew back a little.
“No!” she cried. “I—I only came—”
“I don’t care why you came,” he began. “You’re here—that’s enough!”
Then he noticed how anxious she was, how hurried, and how pale. The light died out of his face. He became grave, as she was.
“Anything wrong?” he asked.
His voice was gentle, and he stood before her with a sort of humility. He knew now that she had not come on his account, and he was terribly disappointed. She saw that, yet she felt that, after all, it would not be hard to explain to him, to ask anything of him. She felt sure that he would understand, and would do whatever she wanted; and that knowledge caused her an odd little thrill, half of pain, half of pride.
“Mr. Randall,” she said, “Mr. Page has come home, and—”
She stopped, and he saw a change come across her face—that cold and scornful look again. When she had to put this thing into words, the shamefulness and the ugliness of it were not to be disguised.
“So they sent me,” she went on curtly, “to say that you had better not come back now.”
“I see!” said Randall. “I’m to run away, when Jesse comes? Well, I won’t!” She had not expected this.