That was all. The next minute the loud clang of the outer door told her that he had gone.
For a long time she sat as though paralysed, listening to the words as they echoed through her memory. He had spoken in German—as he never did save in moments of deep feeling—and there had been something in his voice which she had never heard before. She sprang to her feet. The earlier lassitude and indifference were over, she felt as though every nerve in her body had been drawn taut by some nameless, indefinable fear.
"Wolff!" she cried. "Wolff!"
She knew that he was out of hearing. She knew that if he stood before her in that moment she would turn from him with the same coldness, the same anger. Yet she called for him despairingly, and when she put her hand to her face she found that it was wet with tears.
"Wolff!" she repeated. "Wolff!"
The answering silence appalled her. She ran out into the passage to Miles's door and knocked urgently. She did not know what she wanted of him. She only knew that she could not bear to be alone.
After what seemed a moment's hesitation the bolt was drawn, and Miles's flushed face appeared in the aperture. He looked curiously relieved when he saw who his visitor was.
"What is it?" he demanded curtly. "I am busy packing."
His tone gave her back her self-possession—or the appearance of self-possession.
"I only wanted to know if you were at home," she said. "I—am going out for a little."