"Do you intend to leave me here in the middle of this—"
"No, no! Of course not. I'm rattled, that's all. I've just got a cowardly desire to flee and butt my head against the nearest wall. That's what I ought to do. I don't know what possessed me. I don't know what you'll think of me."
"We won't speak of it now. Try to compose yourself and find our lodging-place."
"Why, yes, of course. I'll see that you're fixed up comfortably and then I'll get out."
"Oh, you mustn't leave me!" she cried in a panic. "I couldn't stay in that awful place alone." She drew a little nearer to him as if demanding his protection.
A wave of tenderness swept over him. She was just a girl, after all, he reflected, and if it were not for what had happened a moment before the most natural thing in the world would be to take her in his arms and comfort her.
"I—I won't leave you—I'll stay near you," he stammered.
But as they trudged along together through the dark his chagrin returned in full force. Mrs. Cortlandt maintained a distressing silence, and he could not see her face. Presently he began to plead brokenly for forgiveness, stumbling in the effort not to offend her further and feeling that he was making matters worse with every word he uttered. For a long time she made no reply, but at last she said:
"Do you think I ought ever to see you again after this?"
"I suppose not," said Kirk, miserably.