She was in her room and heard him call to her, but she did not answer, and she heard him question the maid, before he came running up the stairs.
Her door was open and he saw her at once, standing by the window, but she did not look round, even when he shut the door and went over to her.
"Marie Celeste." There was an eager note in his voice, and he would have taken her in his arms, but she turned, holding him away.
"No—please, we don't want to pretend any more."
He fell back a step, the eagerness dying from his face.
"What do you mean? What has happened?"
"Nothing—except that I know—about you and Dorothy." She put her hands behind her, gripping the window sill to steady herself as she went on: "I'm not going to make a scene. I know how you hate them, and I don't blame you. I don't think either of us is to blame; but— 249 I've finished, and that's all . . . If you won't go away from the house, I will, and I don't ever want to see you again."
She felt as if she were listening to the words of someone else— listening with cool criticism, but she went on steadily:
"We've tried, as you wished, and it's failed. I can go away quietly, and nobody need know much about it."
She raised her eyes to his stunned face for the first time.