“But you did intend to go on and face him and have it out. You told me that.”
A faint tinge of color relieved the white rigidity of Io’s face. “Yes,” she agreed. “I did mean it. Now it’s too late and I’m disgraced.”
“Don’t be melodramatic. And don’t waste yourself in self-pity. To-morrow you’ll see things clearer, after you’ve slept.”
“Sleep? I couldn’t.” She pressed both hands to her temples, lifting tragic and lustrous eyes to her companion. “I think my head is going to burst from trying not to think.”
After some hesitancy Miss Van Arsdale went to a wall-cabinet, took out a phial, shook into her hand two little pellets, and returned the phial, carefully locking the cabinet upon it.
“Take a hot bath,” she directed. “Then I’m going to give you just a little to eat. And then these.” She held out the drug.
Io acquiesced dully.
Early in the morning, before the first forelight of dawn had started the birds to prophetic chirpings, the recluse heard light movements in the outer room. Throwing on a robe she went in to investigate. On the bearskin before the flickering fire sat Io, an apparition of soft curves.
“D—d—don’t make a light,” she whimpered. “I’ve been crying.”
“That’s good. The best thing you could do.”