Perhaps he read the answer in her face, for he took a quick protesting step forward. "Marie—you're not . . ."
She stood up, her hand on the chair between them.
"I've been thinking it over, Chris, and—and I can't go away with you to-day."
Their eyes met steadily for a moment, and she saw his lips quiver as if she had hurt him, but Chris knew how to take a hard blow. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Very well—I know I've only myself to blame."
He turned to the door, but she called him back.
"There's something else, Chris."
"Well?"
But now she could not meet his eyes, and her voice was almost a whisper as she said:
"I wanted to ask you—it's . . . it's so hopeless going on like this. You are not any more happy than I am . . . Couldn't we—isn't there some way of . . . of both of us getting our freedom again?"