She made no answer. The attitude of hostility and defiance had gone. She looked at him silently, pleadingly, like some helpless dumb animal trying to placate its master's wrath. Brockton glanced at his watch, walked over to the window and then came back to where she stood. Shaking his fist at her, he muttered:
"You've made a nice mess of it, haven't you?"
"There isn't any mess," she answered weakly. "Please go away. He'll be here soon. Please let me see him—please do that."
"No," he replied doggedly, "I'll wait. This time I'm going to tell him myself, and I don't care how tough it is."
Frightened at this suggestion, which might be so full of dire consequences, she was instantly galvanized into action. Starting up again, she cried:
"No, you mustn't do that!" Approaching him, she said pleadingly: "Oh, Will, I'm not offering any excuse. I'm not saying anything, but I'm telling you the truth. I couldn't give him up—I couldn't do it. I love him."
Shrugging his shoulders he made an ironical exclamation:
"Huh!"
"Don't you think so?" she went on piteously. "I know you can't see what I see, but I do. And why can't you go away? Why can't you leave me this? It's all I ever had. He doesn't know. No one will ever tell him. I'll take him away. It's the best for him—it's the best for me. Please go."
He laughed, and, going back to the armchair, deliberately reseated himself. Ignoring her tearful pleading, he said scornfully: