“Are you afraid?” she asked.
“Don’t leave me now,” he went on.
“Are you afraid?” she repeated.
“Do you think me simply out of my mind?” he pursued instead of answering. “Do I merely strike you as a harmless lunatic?”
“No,” said May Bartram. “I understand you. I believe you.”
“You mean you feel how my obsession—poor old thing—may correspond to some possible reality?”
“To some possible reality.”
“Then you will watch with me?”
She hesitated, then for the third time put her question. “Are you afraid?”
“Did I tell you I was—at Naples?”