“Let me get down!” she cried.
Mrs. Sommers flung away from the door.
“Then go and marry your man-killer!”
But Betty Neal was already clattering down the stairs. Half way to the bottom her strength and courage ebbed suddenly from her; she went on with short steps, and when at last she closed the parlor door behind her, she was staring as if she looked at a ghost.
Yet Vic Gregg was not greatly changed—a little thinner perhaps, and just now he certainly did not have his usual color. The moment she appeared he jumped to his feet as if he had heard a shot, and now he stood with his feet braced a little to meet a shock, one hand twitching and playing nervously with the embroidered cloth on the table. She did not speak; merely stood with her fingers still gripping the handle of the door as if she were ready to dart away at the first alarm. A wave of pain went over the face of Vic Gregg and remained looking at her out of his eyes, for all that his single-track, concentrated mind could perceive in her was the thing he took for fear.
“Miss Neal,” he said. His voice shook, straightened out again. He made her think of one of her big school boys who had forgotten his lesson and now stood cudgeling his memory and dreading that terrible nightmare of “staying after school.” She had a wild desire to laugh.
“Miss Neal, I ain't here to try to take up things that can't be took up ag'in.” Apparently he had prepared the speech carefully, and now he went on with more ease: “I'm leavin' these here parts for some place unknown. Before I go I jest want to say I know I was wrong from the beginnin'. All I want to say is that I was jest all sort of tied up in a knot inside and when I seen you with him—” He stopped. “I hope you marry some gent that's worth you, only they ain't any such. An'—I want to wish you good-luck, an' say good-by—”
He swept the perspiration from his forehead, and caught up his hat; he had been through the seventh circle of torture.
“Oh, Vic, dear!” cried a voice he had never heard before. Then a flurry of skirts, then arms about him, then tears and laughter, and eyes which went hungrily over his face.
“I been a houn'-dog. My God, Betty, you don't mean—”