Olga was silent. The clasp of her hand was very close.
"My dear," Violet said, "I've been there again."
"Where, dearest?"
"I've been right up to the Gate of Heaven," she said. "It's very lovely up there, Allegro. I wanted to stay."
"Did you, dear?"
"Yes. I didn't mean to come back again. I didn't want to come back." A sudden spasm contracted her brows. "What happened before I went, Allegro? I'm sure something happened."
Very tenderly Olga sought to reassure her. "You were ill, dear. You were upset. But you are better now. Don't let us think about it."
"Ah! I remember!" Violet raised herself abruptly. Her eyes shone wide with terror in the failing light. "Allegro!" she said. "I—killed him!"
"No, no, dear!" Olga's hand tenderly pressed her down again. "He is only—a little—hurt. You didn't know what you were doing."
But recollection was dawning in the seething brain. One memory after another pierced through the turmoil. "I had to do it!" she whispered. "He is so cruel. He keeps me back. He holds the door when I want to get away. Allegro, why won't he let me go? I'm nothing to him. He doesn't love me. He doesn't—even—hate me." A great shudder ran through her. She fell back upon the pillow as though her strength were gone. "Oh, why won't he open the door and let me go?" She moaned piteously. "Why does he keep bringing me back? I know I shall kill him. I shall be driven to it. And it's such a horrible thing to do—that dreadful soft feeling under the knife, and the blood—the blood—oh, Allegro!"