“Now you sit down,” she ordered. She was almost gay again, yet with a nervous, desperate gaiety that would at moments die to a brooding solemnity. “And listen,” she began, when he had seated himself in bewilderment at her sudden change of mood, “you’ll be off to your old motion picture to-morrow night, and I’ll be here sick in bed—”
“I won’t go if you don’t want me to,” he put in quickly.
“That’s no good; you’d have to go sometime. The quicker the better, I guess. I’ll go myself sometime, if I ever get over this disease that’s coming on me. Anyway, you go, and then if you ever see me again you can give me this—” She quickly came to put the watch back in his hands. “Yes, yes, take it. I won’t have it till you give it to me again, if I’m still alive.” She held up repulsing hands. “Now we’ve had one grand little evening, and I’ll let you go.” She went to stand by the door.
He arose and stood by her. “All this nonsense!” he grumbled. “I—I won’t stand for it—see what I mean?” Very masterfully again he put his arms about her. “Say,” he demanded, “are you afraid of me like you said you’d always been afraid of men?”
“Yes, I am. I’m afraid of you a whole lot. I don’t know how you’ll take it.” “Take what?”
“Oh, anything—anything you’re going to get.”
“Well, you don’t seem to be afraid of me.”
“I am, more than any one.”
“Well, Sarah, you needn’t be—no matter what you’ve done. You just forget it and give me a good big—”
“I’m glad I’m using my own face in this scene,” murmured Sarah.