"I don't think so," he said quickly.
"I talked about 'my interpretation' of the words you quoted," she said, "just as if I spoke from some special knowledge, from personal experience, I mean. I had no intention of giving you that idea; it was merely a thought I expressed."
How could she say what her heart was full of without betraying herself? He was waiting for her to speak with a strained look in his eyes.
"And, of course, any one can 'think.' I am afraid——Somehow—I find it impossible to say what I mean—I—I am horribly stupid to-night."
She moved forward and he opened the door, and held it open for her. She went out with only a brief "Good-night," because no more words would come. She had said all she was able to say, and now she walked along trying to get her breath again. In the corridor she came upon Louise, who seemed to have sprung suddenly from nowhere.
"Can I assist Madame?" said Louise, her face full of unrestrained curiosity. "Can I brush Madame's hair?"
May made one or two more steps without finding her voice, then she said—
"No, thank you, Louise." And feeling more than seeing the Frenchwoman's ardent stare of interrogation, she added: "Louise, you may bring back my travelling things, please, the first thing to-morrow morning. I shall want them."
Louise was silent for a moment, just as a child is voiceless for a moment before it bursts into shrieks. She followed May to her door.
"I shall pack everything for Madame," she exclaimed, and her voice twanged like steel. She followed May into her bedroom. "I shall pack everything when Madame goes truly." Here she glanced round the room, and her large dark eyes rested with wild indignation on the little stained figure of St. Joseph standing on the table by the bed.