“Go up, I’ll come in an hour. I want to think,” she said gently. “Please don’t, don’t look at me like that.”
“Very well,” he said curtly, “You’ll be up in an hour?”
She nodded and stood while he went away, angry and in his blackest mood.
XXXII
True to her word, at the appointed time she came knocking at his door. He was walking up and down—he had not ceased from this nervous pacing since she had left him and, at the first glance, she saw how taut every nerve was strung. She went to him directly, and taking his hand, pressed it to her heart. At her action, so full of gentleness and poignant feeling, he felt a longing to catch her up in his arms and surrender weakly each last shred of resentment.
“Inga—dear girl,” he said with difficulty, “you don’t know how you torture me and the worst is I can’t understand—no; I can’t understand at all!”
“Mr. Dan, why can’t it go on just as it has?” she said suddenly, lifting her pleading eyes to his.
“It can’t,” he said roughly. “You know that as well as I do. It’s gone too far. You’ve made yourself necessary to me. I must have you near me, by my side, every moment of the day. I don’t believe in myself; I believe in you, and that’s what I cling to. Good God, Inga, I don’t understand you! Do you think you have the right to do this now, and for what reason?” He stopped, looked at her, and said angrily: “You are not so idiotic to think I care what may have been your past. It isn’t any such thing as that, is it?”
She shook her head disdainfully.