"Yes.... And, somehow I feel that perhaps it is better not to—kiss me to-night. When I see you—this way—Garry, I could find it in me to do anything—almost.... Good night."
Watching him, she waited in silence for a while, then turned slowly and lighted the tiny night-lamp on the table beside her bed.
When she returned to the open door there was no light in the hall. She heard him moving somewhere in the distance.
"Where are you, Garry?"
He came back slowly through the dim corridor.
"Were you going without a word to me?" she asked.
He came nearer and leaned against the doorway.
"You are quite right," he said sullenly. "I've been a fool to let us drift in this way. I don't know where we're headed for, and it's time I did."
"What do you mean?"—in soft consternation.
"That there is no hope left for us—and that we are both pretty young, both in love, both close to desperation. At times I tell you I feel like a cornered beast—feel like showing my teeth at the world—like tearing you from it at any cost. I'd do it, too, if it were not for your father and mother. You and I could stand it."