“No, don’t,” he said curtly. “Not just now.”
Here she was, chattering about curtains, after all that had happened! He remembered how he had left her the evening before, after a horrible interview with her aunt. He remembered her pitiful attempts to soothe and comfort that hysterical old demon, and her anguish when she failed so utterly, and was told that if she married “that man” she would be cast off—except for the trifling communications necessary to continuing her support of the martyr.
“And I couldn’t sleep for worrying about her!” he thought bitterly. “I thought she’d be ill, and look at her now—perfectly happy, talking about curtains!”
“Come on!” he said aloud, and then stopped, with a frown. “Haven’t you any umbrella?” he asked.
“I have one,” she replied, “but not here. It wasn’t raining when I started.”
“Edith!” he said suddenly. “Don’t you remember?”
How could he have imagined that she was happy, or that her mind was filled with thoughts of curtains? That small, gallant, smiling thing, so pale, so troubled, with the shadow of her suffering dark in her eyes!
“It’s nearly twelve, Joe,” she said, looking at her watch. “We haven’t much time.”
“Oh, yes, we have!” he told her. “We have any amount of time, for I’m never going back there.”
“Joe!” she cried. “Oh, Joe! Oh, no, no! Don’t tell me you’ve—”