"You'd hate me, Bruce, you'd hate me!"
She threw herself full length on the bed. Jealousy had had its inning. All the bitterness that it could create had been flung forth on to the woman who had roused it and then the emotion had died. Strong as it was in Nora, the elemental, the childish, it was not so strong as her loyalty to Bayard's influence and the same thing in her that would have welcomed physical abuse from him now called on her to undo her work of the evening, to strive to prevent his love for Ann from wasting itself, though every effort that she might make toward that end would cause her suffering.
It was midnight when Ann Lytton, still motionless, still chilling and flushing as thought followed thought through her confused mind, found herself in the center of her dark room. The knock that had roused her to things outside sounded again on her door, low and cautious.
"Who is it?" she asked, unsteadily.
"It's me, Nora."
The tone was husky, weak, contrite.
"Well, what do you want, Nora?"—summoning a sternness for the query.
"I ... I want to come in; I want to tell you somethin' ... if you'll let me."
Ann calculated a moment, but the quality of the other woman's voice, supplicating, uncertain, swung the balance and she unlocked the door, opening it wide. Nora stood in her long white gown, head hung, fingers nervously intertwining before her.
A pitiable humility was about the girl, and on sight of it Ann's manner changed.