“Going away!” she echoed, with a little catch in her breath. “Where, dear?”
“To—to America.” He could not tell her all the truth, but there was no power in him to originate an unnecessary lie. He felt her arms tighten about him, and he answered the appeal hoarsely, hurrying out the words. “I—I’m leaving a letter about you, and——” his voice died away in his throat as he tried to speak of his child, and then he went on rapidly and unevenly: “It will be—all right. Clemence! Clemence! try to forgive me. Good-bye, dear, good-bye!”
He drew her hands from about his neck, kissing them wildly. Her hold tightened instinctively upon his fingers, and she was trembling very much.
“You’re not going—now?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he answered hoarsely. “Now!”
Then, as he saw the look which came over her face, the desperate necessity for reassuring her came upon him. He tried to smile.
“America is nothing nowadays, you know,” he said in a harsh, unnatural tone. “It’s no distance. I shall be—back directly. Say good-bye to me, won’t you? I must go.”
She let her face fall on his shoulder, pressing it closer and closer, as though she could never tear herself away.
“I’m frightened for you, dear,” she said. “I’m frightened. Are you sure, sure, there is nothing—wrong?”
“Quite sure—of course.”