"Wait, wait," she said breathlessly, burying her head on his shoulder and tightening the grip of her arms.
She led him, still clinging to his side, through the ballroom and the little salon into the great library, where he had gone for his decisive interview with Drake. They stood a moment in filtered obscurity, groping for the buttons, until suddenly the room sprang out of the night. Then he saw that she had been weeping. Before he could exclaim, the tears sprang to her eyes and she flung herself in his arms again, sheltering her head against his shoulder, clinging to his protection as though reeling before the sudden down swoop of a storm. His first thought was of death, a catastrophe in the family—father, mother—Patsie! At this thought his heart seemed to stop and he said brokenly:
"Doris, what is it—nothing has happened—no one is—is in danger?"
"No, no," she said in a whisper. "Oh, don't make me speak—not just yet. Keep your arms about me. Tighter so that I can never, never get away."
He obeyed, wondering, his mind alert, seeking a reason for this strange emotion. Suddenly she raised her head and, seizing his in her hands with such tenacity that he felt the cut of her sharp little fingers, kissed him with the poignant agony of a great separation.
"Bojo, remember this," she cried through her tears, "whatever happens—whatever comes—it is you—you! I shall love only you all my life—no one else!"
"Whatever happens?" he said, frowning, but beginning to have a glimmer of the truth. "What do you mean?"
She moved from him, standing, with head slightly down, staring at him silently for a long moment. Then she said, shaking her head slowly:
"Oh, how you will hate me!"
He went to her quickly and, taking her by the wrist, led her to the big sofa.