His face was full of angry confession. He had had no intention of talking to her in this way, but now he suddenly wanted to reinstate himself in her good opinion and be soothed by her sympathy. She stopped him.
“Don’t talk about it. It’s done. If you made a mistake, it’s done, and that’s the end. Oh, Jerry, don’t talk about it.”
She rose to her feet; the room was getting dim. Outside the royal dyes of sunset had faded from the sky and the twilight was softly settling.
“I’ll have to light the gas,” she stammered. “The servants haven’t come in yet. This half-light makes me blue.”
Jerry stood aside as she went to the mantel and from among the embanked flowers drew the matchbox. The chandelier hung just above his head draped with garlands of smilax. It was high and as June came forward with the lighted match, he stretched out his hand to take it from her. They were close together under the chandelier as their hands touched. Each felt the tremulous cold of the other’s fingers and the match dropped, a red spark, between them.
With suddenly-caught breath Jerry stretched his arms out to clasp her but she drew back, her hands outspread before her, crying,
“Don’t, Jerry, don’t! Oh, please don’t!”
She backed away from him and he followed her, not speaking, his face set, his arms ready to enfold her. She was stopped in her recoil by the sofa, and standing against it she looked at him, with agonized pleading, whispering,
“Don’t, Jerry. Oh, please go. Please go and leave me! You loved me once.”
He stopped, stood looking at her for a moment of stricken irresolution, then turned without a word and left the room.