"Don't take off your things," I heard him say. "I came to get you. We'll have a blow-out somewhere. Olive, Olive!" His quick sympathy came out, and the excusing charm. "Oh, my dear, you're crying!"
"Griff, you're leaving me." It was as if I had accused him. I sank down in a chair; I was dabbling at my eyes and trying to get my veil off with cold fingers.
"Not if you feel that way about it." He came and put his arms about me and constrained me until I leaned against his body. I knew what he was, what a man of that stamp must be feeling and thinking, and, knowing, I permitted it. I was crying still, I think ... his hands came fumbling under my veil ... presently he kissed me.
"Olivia?"
"Well, Griff!"
"You know—it is for you to say if I shall leave you."
"You mean that you will give up ... but how can you, Griff; it is the only thing that's been offered." We were sitting still on the low cot in my room and there was no light but the dull glow of the stove and the last trace of the day that came in at the window. We had not been out to dinner yet, and Griffin's arm was around me. I could feel it slack a little now as if he definitely forebore to constrain me.
"I mean, Lowe could get you a place in the chorus."
"But, Griff, I can't sing."
"You can sing enough for that, and Lowe would get you the place if—if you belonged to me." I knew exactly what this implied, but no start responded to it. The nerve of propriety was ached out.