Annie Day ran off, and Maggie stood by the open window looking out at the starry night. Her head ached; her pulses beat; she felt sick and tired. The noise and laughter which filled the gaily thronged rooms were all discordant to her—she wished she had not come. A voice close by made her start—a hand not only clasped hers, but held it firmly for a moment. She looked up, and said with a sudden impulse, “Oh, Geoffrey! I am glad you are here.” Then, with a burning blush, she withdrew her hand from Hammond’s.
“Can I help you?” he asked. His heart was beating fast; her words were tingling in his ears, but his tone was quiet. “Can I help you?” he repeated. “Here is a seat.” He pulled a chair from behind a curtain, and Maggie dropped into it.
“Something is wrong,” she said; “something dreadful has happened.”
“May I know what it is?”
“I don’t think I have any right to tell you. It is connected with the college; but it has given me a blow, and I was tired beforehand. I came here against my will, and now I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“That can be easily managed. I will stand here, and keep off all intruders.”
“Thank you.” Maggie put her hand to her forehead.
The headache, which had scarcely left her for a fortnight, was now so acute that all her thoughts were confused; she felt as if she were walking in a dream. It seemed perfectly right and natural that Hammond should stand by her side and protect her from the crowd; it seemed natural to her at that moment, natural, and even right, to appeal to him.
After a long pause, he said—