For a moment, startled out of a confused succession of restless dreams, Inga could not realize where she was. Then the squalor of the room, the haggard, tortured face of Dangerfield looking down in remorse, the memory of the long night of struggle came back in a flash. She sprang up hastily.
“I went off to sleep—heavens, how late is it?”
“It’s after three—I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, in a low voice.
“Oh, why didn’t you call me?” she said hastily, struck by the new note of pain and contrition.
He brushed her question aside, staring at her.
“How was it possible—Good God, how could I have brought you here?” He stopped, shuddered, and glanced around at the room.
“You didn’t. I brought you,” she said quickly. “You had—had collapsed.”
“Sit down,” he said.
He drew a chair opposite her, took both her hands in his, and looked at her so long that she began to be embarrassed. Then, all at once, his lips twisted, his eyes filled with tears, and he buried his head in his hands.
“Don’t mind me, Mr. Dan!” she cried in her distress, bending over him. “Don’t think of me!” And, as he continued to dig his hands into his cheeks against the long pent-up emotion, she added: “I’m only happy to have helped you. Really I am.”