"Then that night—that night—" gasped Avery, "he really did come to me—that night after the baby was born."
"My darling, you begged for him so piteously," said Mrs. Lorimer apologetically.
Avery's lip quivered. "That was just what I feared—what I wanted to make impossible," she said. "When one is suffering, one forgets so."
"But surely it was the cry of your heart, darling," urged Mrs. Lorimer tremulously. "And do you know—poor lad—he looks so ill, so miserable."
But Avery's face was turned away. "I can't help it," she said. "I can't—possibly—see him again. I feel as if—as if there were a curse upon us both, and that is why the baby died. Oh yes, morbid, I know; perhaps wrong. But—I have been steeped in sin. I must be free for a time. I can't face him yet. I haven't the strength."
"Dearest, he will never force himself upon you," said Mrs. Lorimer.
Avery's eyes went instinctively to the door that led into the room that Piers had occupied after his marriage. The broken bolt had been removed, but not replaced. A great shudder went through her. She covered her face with her hands.
"Oh, beg him—beg him to go away," she sobbed, "till I am strong enough to go myself!"
Argument was useless. Mrs. Lorimer abandoned it with the wisdom born of close friendship. Instead, she clasped Avery tenderly to her and gave herself to the task of calming her distress.
And when that was somewhat accomplished, she left her to go sadly in search of Piers.