She cried out. 'It was the merest accident!' And volubly—abjectly—she explained.
He listened to her, but without seeming to understand—his own mind working irrelevantly all the time. And presently he interrupted her.
'Besides—I'm unhinged—I'm not fit to have women dependent on me. I can't answer for myself. Yesterday—if that picture had come at eight o'clock instead of seven—it would have been too late!'
His voice altered strangely.
Phoebe fell back upon the floor, huddled together—staring at him.
'What do you mean?'
'I should have destroyed myself. That's what I mean. I had made up my mind. It was just touch and go.'
Phoebe sat speechless. It seemed as though her eyes—so wide and terrified—were fixed in their places, and could not release him. He moved impatiently; the appeal, the horror of them, were more than he could bear.
'And much better for you if I had!—and as for Carrie!—Ah!—good
Heavens! there she is.'
He sprang up in agitation, looking through the open window, yet withdrawing from it. Phoebe too rose, the colour rushing back into her cheeks. This was to be her critical, her crucial moment. If she recovered him, she was to owe it to her child.