"Oh, I know he's in love with you—damn him!"
"John!"
"I beg your pardon."
"It wasn't the language," she smiled feebly. "It was—to feel like that. I—I don't want him to love me."
"I suppose you thought a man could live here day after day and look at you as if you were a—well, a broomstick!" He was deeply sarcastic now, for he was furious; the pang was deeper than jealousy, it was rending his being.
Rachel saw his pain, and would have given the world to comfort him, to lay her hand on his crisp blond hair, to touch his cheek, but she dared only to get up from her chair and move further away from him. "John, you've got to go; you'll be late now and—"
"Well, he knows I was coming."
"That doesn't matter—please," she looked at him gently, almost humbly, "please don't make people talk. I want to be proud of you."
He walked straight across the room and took her in his arms and kissed her. "I'm going; I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head if I died for it, I'm willing to die to keep you safe; I'm going—God bless you, it's like death, Rachel, for I know you're sending me away, but I adore you for being just what you are!"
She kept on her feet until he went out, and stood still, by the table, with the soft light on her, but when she heard the door close behind him, she crumpled down into a pitiful, little heap on the floor, her head buried in the cushions of her chair, and she heard nothing, not even the storm; it seemed to her that it was more than she could bear!