She had both her arms stretched before him on the table now. The hands were clasped. The little thin hands implored him. Her eyes implored him. In the tense clasp and in the gaze there was the passion of entreaty that she kept out of her voice.
But Rowcliffe did not see it. He had shifted his position, sinking a little lower into his chair, and his head was bowed before her. His eyes, somberly reflective, looked straight in front of him under their bent brows.
He seemed to be really considering whether he would go or stay.
"No," he said presently. "No, I'm not going."
But he was dubious and deliberate. It was as if he still weighed it, still watched for the turning of the scale.
The clock across the market-place struck eight. He gathered himself together. And it was then as if the strokes, falling on his ear, set free some blocked movement in his brain.
"No," he said, "I don't see how I can go, as things are. Besides—it isn't necessary."
"I see," she said.
* * * * *
She rose. She gave him a long look. A look that was still incredulous of what it saw.