"Yes, it is for me," she said hastily, glancing at the card. "It's all right. Send him up."
She returned in a panic, closing the trunk, pushing in stubborn bureau drawers. Now that he had actually come, as she had written him, as she had not believed he would come, she felt cold and hot all at once with sudden irregular knockings of her heart within. What would be the end of it all? What power had he still over her? All at once she perceived the packet of letters on the bed where she had thrown them—his letters—and rushing over caught them up and flung them in the hastily opened trunk.
"Come—"
She turned instantly intent—rigid. But her ear had deceived her, there had been no knock. She caught her breath twice, dug her nails into the palms of her hands and walked steadily away. When a moment later there came a knock, she was able to say calmly:
"Yes, come."
The door opened with a certain solemnity and Judge Massingale came in. She acknowledged his coming with a half-forward gesture of her hand, her glance on the floor, afraid of the first recognition, saying rapidly:
"It was good of you to come, very good. Thank you."
He stood, without movement to lay aside his hat and stick, self-possessed and cynically amused.
"I have come, my dear lady," he said evenly. "Well, because—I was curious."
"I had to see you," she said in a low rapid voice, "I could not bear—I had to see you—I wanted you to understand."