She rose silently, and turning, took his overcoat and held it up to him—an action so unexpected that he looked at her in surprise.
“Thought you didn’t want me to——”
“I was wrong. You have a right to do anything you want.”
He nodded appreciatively, and said suddenly, as though in excuse:
“I can’t help it; I can’t—I tell you, I can’t. I’ve got to get out.”
“Don’t explain,” she said quietly. “Don’t get excited; and when you come in, call me.”
He took her shoulders in his hands and turned her toward the light.
“You’re a queer one, queer as I am, I guess—but you understand.”
“Yes; I understand.”
“Why do you do it?” he said suddenly, his mind evidently turning again and again to the problem which perplexed him.