Her hands were stretched out towards him in appeal and they faced each other trembling. Then Matthew’s voice came—unnatural, shaken:
“I can’t stay now, Cecily. It would only make you more wretched.”
She heard the door close and was alone in the warm, softly lit room, helplessly sobbing.
Matthew hurried along as if trying to escape from the thoughts or suggestions that pursued him. Through the darkened streets, choosing side streets for his progress, almost stumbling in his absorption, he walked for miles, apparently seeing nothing, all the keenness of observation that was usual with him obscured in his face. It was midnight when he reached his home, and entering softly, went upstairs. The light from Fliss’s room shone bright into the hallway. He was passing when she called him back.
“Late, aren’t you, Matthew?”
He stood silhouetted in her doorway, looking unkempt and worn. Fliss was at her dressing table brushing the luxuriant hair of which she was so proud. She looked at him curiously.
“Where on earth have you been to look like that?”
“Like what? I took a walk and it’s damp outside.”
“You certainly must have walked,” commented Fliss. “Sit down here and rest and talk to me.”
“I’m tired. I think I’ll go along to bed.”