"Oh, it isn't as dangerous as all that. If you'd only been asleep, as I thought you were, I'd've been back before you knew anything about it."
"I should have known!" she declared passionately. "I was asleep, but I knew the instant you stirred. Tell me; how long did you stand listening here, to learn if I was awake or not?"
"Several minutes."
"I knew it, though I was asleep, and didn't waken till the board squeaked. I knew you would try it—knew it from the time when you quibbled and evaded and wouldn't give me a straight promise. Oh, Hugh, my Hugh, if you had gone and left me...!"
Her voice shook and broke. She swayed imperceptibly toward him, then away, resting a shoulder against the wall and quivering as though she would have fallen but for that support. He found himself unable to endure the reproach of those dark and luminous eyes set in the mask of pallor that was her face in the half-light of the hallway. He looked away, humbled, miserable, pained.
"It's too bad," he mumbled. "I'm sorry you had to know anything about it. But ... it can't be helped, Mary. You've got to brace up. I won't be gone four hours at the longest."
"Four hours!" She stood away from the wall, trembling in every limb. "Hugh, you—you don't mean—you're not going—now?"
He nodded a wretched, makeshift affirmation.
"It must be done," he muttered. "Please—"
"But it must not be done! Hugh!" Her voice ascended "I—I can't let you. I won't let you! You ... It'll be your death—you'll drown. I shall have let you go to your death—"