"Of course not.... You know I won't."
"Then good-bye."
She looked at him indifferently and turned away. Noiselessly she left the house. She hoped that she might return unseen to her home, and rejoiced that no one was apt to be out so early. The snow fell thickly, blindingly, and covered her footsteps. The air was sweet, less cold than in the night, the wind had gone down. Each branch and twig was ridged with snow; it lay in a broad unbroken sheet over all surfaces, and seemed to give out light in the dim dawn.
As she approached the house, she wondered how she was to get in; the street-door locked with a catch and she had no key. But as she went up on the steps she heard the baby crying, and barely noticed that the door opened to her touch; some one had turned the catch back.... She ran upstairs. Laurence was in the room, dressed, holding the child, trying to quiet it. She threw off her shawl, put out her arms for the boy, gathered him to her breast. His cries ceased.
A flash of surprise and relief had lit Laurence's face at her entrance, but now he stood, looking pale and gloomy.
"How long has he been crying?" she asked.
"I don't know—not very long."
Still holding the child, she tried to light a spirit-lamp to heat some milk; Laurence silently helped her. When she had laid the baby on the bed, with his bottle, she said:
"You know I went out?"
"Yes, and I know where you went, too!"