The lady shrank with becoming and genuine modesty from the contact, gently repelled him with 211 her hands, saying, “No, I’m better now,—but come,” and took him by the arm to lead him further from the fatal closet.
But Peyton immediately released his arm.
“Ah, thank you for not fainting!” he said, with complete sincerity, and stalked directly back to the closet. Before she could think of a new device, he had opened the door, beheld the hat, and seized it in triumph. “By George, I was right! I bid you farewell, Miss Williams!” He very civilly saluted her with the hat, and turned towards the west door of the parlor.
Must, then, all her previous ingenuity be wasted? After having so far exerted herself, must she suffer the ignominious consequences of failure?
She ran to intercept him. Desperation gave her speed, and she reached the west door before he did. She closed it with a bang, and stood with her back against it. “No, no!” she cried. “You mustn’t!”
“Mustn’t what?” asked Peyton, surprised as much by her distracted eyes, panting nostrils, and heaving bosom, as by her act itself.
“Mustn’t go out this way. Mustn’t open this door,” she answered, wildly.
He scrutinized her features, as if to test a sudden suspicion of madness. In a moment he threw off this conjecture as unlikely.
“But,” said he, putting forth his hand to grasp the knob of the door.