"Has he?"
Roger has begun to walk up and down, as I did a while ago; on his face a look of unquiet discontent.
"It was a mistake his coming here this time," he says, with a sort of anger, and yet compassion, in his tone. "If he had had a grain of sense, he would have staid away!"
"It is a thousand pities that you cannot send us all home again!" I say, with a tight, pale smile—"send us packing back again, Algy and Barbara and me—replace me on the wall among the broken bottles, where you found me."
My voice shakes as I make this dreary joke.
"Why do you say that?" he cries, passionately. "Why do you torment me? You know as well as I do, that it is impossible—out of the question! You know that I am no more able to free you than—"
"You would, then, if you could?" cry I, breathing short and hard. "You own it!"
For a moment he hesitates; then—
"Yes," he says firmly, "I would! I did not think at one time that I should ever have lived to say it, but I would."
"You are at least candid," I answer, with a sort of smothered sob, turning away.