She glanced up at him with again that little quivering smile. "Well, then, we'll talk," she said, "till we come to an understanding."
He put his hand on her shoulder. "Sylvia, don't—play with me!" he said.
His tone was quiet, but it held a warning that brought her eyes to his in a flash. She stood so for a few seconds, facing him, and her breast heaved once or twice as if breathing had become difficult.
At last, "There was no need to say that to me, partner," she said, in a choked voice. "You don't know me—even as well as—as you might—if you—if you took the trouble." She paused a moment, and put her hand to her throat. Her eyes were full of tears. "And now—good night!" she said abruptly.
Her tone was a command. He let her go, and in an instant the door had closed between them. He stood motionless, waiting tensely for the shooting of the bolt; but it did not come. He only heard instead a faint sound of smothered sobbing.
For a space he stood listening, his face drawn into deep lines, his hands hard clenched. Then at length with a bitter gesture he flung himself down at the table.
He was still sitting motionless a quarter of an hour later, the food untouched before him, when the intervening door opened suddenly and silently, and like a swooping bird Sylvia came swiftly behind him and laid her two hands on his shoulders.
"Partner dear, I've been a big idiot. Will you forgive me?" she said.
Her voice was tremulous. It still held a sound of tears. She tried to keep out of his sight as he turned in his chair.
"Don't—don't stare at me!" she said, and slipped coaxing arms that trembled round his neck, locking her hands tightly in front of him. "You hurt me a bit—though I don't think you meant to. And now I've hurt you—quite a lot. I didn't mean it either, partner. So let's cry quits! I've forgiven you. Will you try to forgive me?"