If only he had not come back—if only she had gone sooner.
She turned out the light, and softly, an inch at a time, opened the door. There was a light burning in the sitting-room; there was a smell of cigarette smoke. Jimmy was still there.
She wondered if she could get away without him hearing her; she tiptoed back into the room, took up her bag from the bed, and crept again to the door.
The floor seemed to creak at every step. Half a dozen times she stopped, frightened; then suddenly the half-closed door of the sitting-room opposite opened, and Jimmy came out.
He was in evening-dress; he still wore a loose overcoat.
For a moment he stared at her blankly. The lights had been lowered a little in the corridor, and at first he was not sure if it was she. Then he strode across to her and caught her by the wrist in a not very gentle grip.
"Where are you going?" he asked roughly.
She cowered back from him against the wall; her face was white, but her eyes blazed at him in passionate defiance.
"I am going away. Let me go. I am never coming back any more."
He half led, half dragged her into the sitting-room; he put his back to the door, and stood looking at her, white-faced, silent.