"You're mad!" cried Sally. "He knows it can't be. And you know it, too. I tell you I shall be found out and disgraced." She was not crying. Her pride was aroused. She was full of scorn for one who could disbelieve what she herself knew to be true.
"Well?" Toby demanded. "What of it? Whose fault is it?" He was brutally angry, and a little frightened and blustering. They were still at arm's length in the darkness of the deserted street. There was no lamp near them, and the houses behind were unlighted. Sally's heart fell. She was almost paralysed at Toby's tone. She was puzzled and chagrined and angry. And then a change of mood came abruptly upon her.
"Don't you love me?" she mournfully asked. "I thought you did. I love you, Toby. I thought you loved me.
"I used to," came the grim reply out of the night. He sounded cautious, doubtful.
"Not any longer?" She withdrew herself wholly from him. They were completely sundered. Toby was failing her. She was stone cold to him—cold to all the world.
"Who says I don't?" asked Toby, in a grumbling way. He put out his arm, but Sally stepped back. "Here."
"No," she cried, sharply. Toby was not to take her for granted, not to hold her and make love to her. She was in earnest, and he was giving himself away as one who had taken what he could get.
"I do." At last Toby's sullen assent reached Sally.
"You think I'm a liar," she persisted. "You don't love me." It was bitter.
There was a silence. Toby was almost invisible. Both were lost in the dull estrangement of that troubled mood.