She had leaned nearer to him from the chair, one finger tapping the corner of the desk to emphasize her words. Scrutinizing her as she spoke, he became more than ever impressed with the conviction that she was held in a tremor of febrile excitement. Her voice had an under note of vibration in it, like the voice of one who breathes quickly. The orchid on her breast trembled with the trembling of her frame.
“Look here,” he said quietly, “I want to understand this thing. What’s made you change your mind so suddenly? A few days ago you were all up on fiddle-strings at the suggestion of taking that money. Here, this morning, in you pop, and you’re all of a tremble to get it. What’s the meaning of it?”
“I can’t stand it any more,” she said. “When you said I couldn’t the other day, that I’d break down, you were right. I can’t stand it. Nobody could. It’s broken me to pieces. I want to get away from it all. I want to go somewhere where I’m at peace, where the people don’t hate me and hound me——”
Her voice suddenly grew hoarse and she stopped. He looked at her in surprise. She bent her face down, biting her under lip, and picked tremulously at the leaves of the purple orchid as if arranging them.
“You’ve beaten me,” she said in a suddenly strangled voice, “you’ve beaten me. I can’t fight any longer. Give me some money and let me go. I’m beaten.”
She lowered her head still farther and burst into tears. So unexpected were they that she had no preparations for them. Her handkerchief was in the bead purse that hung on her wrist, and, blinded by tears, she could not find the clasp. Her fumbling hand tried for a possible reserve supply in her belt, and then in despair went up to her face and lifted her veil trying to brush away the falling drops. The Bonanza King stared at her amazed, as much surprised as if he had seen a man weep. Finally he felt in his own pocket, produced a crisply-laundered square of white linen and handed it to her, observing soothingly,
“Here, take mine. You’re all broke up, aren’t you?”
She seized his offering and mopped her cheeks with it, sniffing and gasping, while he watched her in genuine solicitude.
“What’s wore you down to this state?” he said. “You’re the nerviest woman I ever saw.”
“It’s—it’s—all this thing,” she answered in a stifled voice. “I’m just worn out. I haven’t slept for nights,”—a memory of those miserable nights of perturbation and uncertainty swept over her and submerged her in a wave of self-pity. The tears gushed out again, and she held the old man’s large handkerchief against her eyes, uttering small, sobbing noises, sunk in abandoned despondence in the hollow of the chair.