Before he could prevent her or divine her intentions, she had flung herself on his shoulder, clinging to him despite his efforts to tear her from him.
"Please, no scenes," he said hastily. "Quite unnecessary."
She wished him to kiss her once—a last kiss; but he refused. Then she began to cry hysterically, vowing again and again, between her torrents of self-accusation, that no matter what the future brought she would never love any one else but him. It was not until she grew exhausted from the very storm of her emotion that he was able to loosen her arms and force her from him.
"Oh, you don't love me—you don't care!" she cried, when at last she felt herself alone and her arms empty.
"If that can be any consolation—if your grief is real—if you really do care for me," he said, "that is true. I do not love you, Doris, and I never have. That is why I do not hate you or despise you. I am sorry, awfully sorry. You could have been such an awfully good sort."
At this she caught her throat and, afraid of another paroxysm, he went out quickly.
Before the curb the touring-car was waiting. An idea came to him, remembering the glance Doris had sent about the room.
"Going back to-night, Carver?" he said to the chauffeur. "Much of a run?"
"Two hours and a half, sir."
"Mrs. Drake came down with you?"