Her hand dropped slowly to her side. She saw Renata’s mouth open protestingly, and there came on her a wild impulse to stave things off, to have time, just a little time before she let that secret in.
“We’ve got to change clothes,” she said. “Quick, give me that skirt and take mine. Yes, put on the coat, and I’ll give you my shoes, too. My hat’s on the bed; you’d better put it on.”
Renata obeyed. A resentful feeling of being hustled, ordered about, treated like a child, was upon her; but Jane moved and spoke so quickly, and seemed so sure of herself, that there seemed no opening for protest. She thought Jane’s blue serge shabby and old fashioned—not nearly as nice as her own—and Jane’s shoes were terribly worn and needed mending.
“Now, listen,” said Jane.
“If Arnold likes to go to my rooms and pay up two weeks’ rent, he can get my box and all my other clothes for you. There’s not very much, but it’ll be better than nothing. I’ll write a line for him to take, and put the address on it. And will you please remember now and from henceforth that you are Jane Renata Smith, and not Renata Jane Molloy?”
Jane was scribbling a couple of lines as she spoke, and as she turned and gave the paper into Renata’s hand, she knew that she must decide now. The moment of grace was up, and whether she bade Renata speak or be silent, there could be no drawing back.
“What were you going to tell me?” she said.
Renata stood silent for a long minute. She was twisting and turning the slip of paper which Jane had given her. She looked down at her twisting fingers; her breath began to come more quickly. Then with great suddenness she pushed the note into her pocket, and caught at Jane with both hands.
“Yes, I must tell you—I must. It will be coming nearer all the time, and I must tell some one, or I shall go mad.”
“Tell me, then,” said Jane. “You were walking in your sleep, and you opened the door and heard—what did you hear?”