She started to leave.
“Wait! I don’t mean to be rude,” he said nervously, “only——”
“Why, Mr. Dangerfield, don’t say that!” she said quietly. “I understand.”
He nodded, and rather absent-mindedly patted her shoulder. Then, apparently irrelevantly, he said:
“Afraid I’m going off on a wild night, aren’t you?”
“I wasn’t thinking of it.”
“See here,” he said abruptly; “I want you to understand one thing—that isn’t the trouble—I can stop that any time I want”—he added almost viciously—“but I don’t want to.” Then he said, seemingly without reason, as though his mind were vacillating from one extreme to the other: “How long is it to the twentieth?”
“Why, twelve days.”
“Still twelve? The twentieth—that’s a date to remember,” he said, as though to himself.
She saw him frown and stare past her, as that other self came into his eyes, bristling, savage, rebelling against some inner torture.