William's graven face exhibited a strange phenomenon—it twitched slightly.
"Thank you, Mrs. De Peyster," said he. And bowing respectfully, with Matilda upon his arm, he went out.
"Well, Mary, I guess we'd better be going, too," said Jack, taking his wife's hand. "Mother,"—respectfully, yet a little defiantly,—"I'm sorry that Mary and I have by our trespassing caused you so much inconvenience. But Mary and I and our things will be out of the house within an hour. Good-bye."
"Wait, Jack!" Mrs. De Peyster reached up a trembling hand and caught his sleeve. "Olivetta," said she, "perhaps you and your—your fiancé could find—another place for your confidences."
"Oh!" exclaimed Olivetta, starting up with a flush.
"Cousin Caroline, do you mean—"
Mrs. De Peyster lifted an interrupting hand.
"Do as you like, but tell me about it later."
As the pair went out, Mrs. De Peyster slowly raised herself up and stood gazing for a moment at her son. And that strange new force which had menaced her with eruption during all the days of her hiding, and which these last few minutes had been pulsing upward toward orgasm, was now become resistless. It was as though a crust, a shell, were being burst and being violently shed. She thrilled with an amazing, undreamed-of, expanding warmth.
"Do you really—want to—leave me, Jack?" she whispered.