“Bad enough, dear,” he said, “but I gave them some trouble, too.” He pushed a chair toward her. “It was like you to come. But I don't like your seeing me all mussed up, little girl.”
He made a move then to kiss her, but she drew back.
“Please!” she said. “Not here. And I can't sit down. I can't stay. I only came because I wanted to tell you something and I didn't want to telephone it. Louis, Jim Doyle knew about those bombs last night. He didn't want it to happen before the election, but—that doesn't alter the fact, does it?”
“How do you know he knew?”
“I do know. That's all. And I have left Aunt Elinor's.”
“No!”
“I couldn't stay, could I?” She looked up at him, the little wistful glance that Willy always found so infinitely touching, like the appeal of a willful but lovable child, that has somehow got into trouble. “And I can't go home, Louis, unless I—”
“Unless you give me up,” he finished for her. “Well?”
She hesitated. She hated making terms with him, and yet somehow she must make terms.
“Well?” he repeated. “Are you going to throw me over?”