“Why, of course, of course,” he said nervously, not meeting her eyes.
“You’ll come back—you promised,” she said, and as she put her head down and swayed against him, he felt her body trembling. They were hidden by the bend of the hooded passage, alone in the filtered light that struggled up the gloomy halls.
“Inga—Inga—don’t make it harder for me,” he said bitterly.
“You’ll come back,” she repeated, desperately clinging to him, her face upraised, her eyes searching his in terror. “Say it; promise it!”
“I—perhaps—” His hand closed over her fingers with the nervous tension that these last days of abstinence had brought him.
“Mr. Dan, you must not think you’re alone—you mustn’t say no one cares!” She slipped her arms about his neck, and he felt her breast shaken with the heave of agitated breaths. “If anything—anything—happened—” She shook her head and stopped, unable to finish.
“Happen—what do you think—why is that idea in your head?” he said, holding her from him.
She put her handkerchief hastily to her eyes and threw her head back suddenly, so that her look seemed to penetrate through his mask and search into his soul.
He repeated his question, but this time uneasily, conscious of the scrutiny under which she held him.
“Nothing,” she said abruptly. In a moment she was back into the restraint of her usual self. “Then you will come back here—to me,” she said slowly, “to-night. It makes no difference to me—understand that—in what condition you are. I’ll be waiting.”