He went towards the door and his hand was on the handle of the lock when she called him back.
"John—" there was hesitation in her voice.
"Well? What is the matter?" He came back a few steps and stood near her.
"John, did you never care for me in any other way—in any better way—from the heart? You used to say that you did."
"Did I? I have forgotten. One always supposes that young girls naturally expect one to talk a lot of nonsense, and that one has no choice unless one does—so one makes the best of it. I remember that it was a bore to make phrases so I probably made them. Anything else you would like to ask?"
"No—thanks. I would rather be alone."
John Darche left the room and Marion returned to her writing-table as though nothing had been said, intending to write her notes as usual. And indeed, she began, and the pen ran easily across the paper for a few moments.
Then on a sudden, her lip quivered, she wrote one more word, the pen fell from her fingers, and bowing her head upon the edge of the table she let the short, sharp sobs break out as they would.
She was a very lonely woman on that winter's afternoon, and the tension she had kept on herself had been too great to bear any longer.