She was crying. He released her and stepped back from the chair. For an instant he stood there and then, lifting his hands and letting them fall again in surrender, turned away.
“Oh, well!” he sighed, miserably. “Well—there! I see how it is. I was a fool, of course. I ought to have known. I am sorry, Esther. Forgive me, if you can.”
She had sunk down into the rocker once more and was sobbing, her face buried in the cushion upon its back. He spoke again.
“I hope you can forgive me,” he begged. “I didn’t mean to say those things to you—yet. Some day of course, after you had known me longer—and—but I had no idea of saying them now. It was your telling me you were going away—for years—and leaving me— Well, it drove me crazy, that’s all. I am sorry. Of course I don’t blame you in the least. There is no reason why you should care for me—and plenty why you shouldn’t, I suppose. I don’t amount to much, I guess. Don’t cry any more. I am awfully sorry I hurt your feelings.”
The head pressed against the cushion moved back and forth.
“You haven’t hurt them,” she murmured, chokingly. “I don’t know why I am crying. I—I won’t any more.”
She sat up, fumbled for her handkerchief, and hurriedly wiped her eyes.
“Then you do forgive me?” he urged.
“There was nothing to forgive.... No,” earnestly. “No, Bob, you mustn’t. Please don’t!... I—I think you had better go now.”
He took a step toward the door. Then he paused and turned.