“No,” she said; her trembling lips giving her the lie.
“Babette, why?”
He put his hand on her shoulder kindly.
Babette stamped her foot:
“I am not crying,” she said; and a large tear fell.... She made an effort and said: “Horace is going home.... He is going—away.”
She opened the door, and they went in together.
Noll walked into the studio; but the silken rustle of Babette’s skirts passed the door, and hurried on into the darkness of the house.
In the deep dusk of the studio sat four or five figures, smudgy dark shadows, sprawling in armchairs.
“Is that you, Noll?” cried Horace from behind the red spark where a cigarette glowed.
“Yes—I thought you were alone——”