He turned from her instantly, without replying. "May I write a note here?" he said, and went towards the writing-table. "My pen has run dry."
She made a movement that almost expressed panic. She was at the table before he reached it. "Ah, wait a minute! Let me clear my things out of your way first!"
She began to gather up the open blotter that lay there with feverish haste. A sheet of paper flew out from her nervous hands and fluttered to the floor at Field's feet. He stooped and picked it up.
She uttered a gasp and turned as white as the dress she wore. "That is mine!" she panted.
He gave it to her with grave courtesy. "I am afraid I am disturbing you," he said. "I can wait while you finish."
But she crumpled the paper in her hand. She was trembling so much that she could hardly stand.
"It—doesn't matter," she said almost inaudibly.
He stood for a second or two in silence, then seated himself at the writing-table and took up a pen.
In the stillness that followed she moved away to the fire and stood before it. Field wrote steadily without turning his head. She stooped after a moment and dropped the crumpled paper into the blaze. Then she sat down, her hands tightly clasped about her knees, and waited.
Field's quiet voice broke the stillness at length. "If you are writing letters of your own, perhaps I may leave this one in your charge."