“Yes, I am,” he said over his shoulder.
He had an unutterable dread that she would begin to speak of the situation, of Buford, of her past life; that she would try to explain and exonerate herself and they would be plunged into a long and profitless discussion of all the sickening, irremediable wretchedness of the past. He could not bear the thought of it; he would have done anything to avoid it. He wanted to escape from her, from the house where she had tortured him, where he seemed to have laid down his manhood, his honor, his faith, and seen her trample on them. The natural supposition that he would want to confront her with her deception and hear her explanation was the last thing he desired doing.
“Don’t go to your mother’s,” she cried, following him up the hall, “for to-night, Dominick, please. And don’t tell her. I beg, I pray of you, don’t tell her till to-morrow.”
Her manner was so pleadingly, so imploringly insistent, that he turned and looked somberly at her. She was evidently deeply in earnest, her face lined with anxiety.
“This is the last thing I’ll ever ask of you. I know I’ve got no right to ask anything, but you’re generous, you’ve been kind to me in the past, and it’ll not cost you much to be kind just once again. Go to a hotel, or the club, or anywhere you like, but not to your mother’s and don’t tell her till to-morrow afternoon.”
He stared at her without speaking, wishing she would be silent and leave him.
“I’ll not trouble you after to-morrow. I’ll go, I’ll get out. You’ll never be bothered by me any more.”
“All right,” he said, “I’ll go to the club. Let me alone, that’s all, and let me go.”
“And—and,” she persisted, “you won’t tell her till to-morrow, to-morrow afternoon?”
He had entered the parlor in which the Chinaman had lit the lamps, and opening the desk began hunting for his papers. To her last words he returned no answer, and she crept in after him and stood in the doorway, leaning against the woodwork of the door-frame.