“I want to go home,” wailed Io.
“That’s good, too. Though perhaps you’d better wait a little. Why, in particular do you want to go home?”
“I w-w-w-want to m-m-marry Delavan Eyre.”
A quiver of humor trembled about the corners of Camilla Van Arsdale’s mouth. “Echoes of remorse,” she commented.
“No. It isn’t remorse. I want to feel safe, secure. I’m afraid of things. I want to go to-morrow. Tell Mr. Banneker he must arrange it for me.”
“We’ll see. Now you go back to bed and sleep.”
“I’d rather sleep here,” said Io. “The fire is so friendly.” She curled herself into a little soft ball.
Her hostess threw a coverlet over her and returned to her own room.
When light broke, there was no question of Io’s going that day, even had accommodations been available. A clogging lassitude had descended upon her, the reaction of cumulative nervous stress, anesthetizing her will, her desires, her very limbs. She was purposeless, ambitionless, except to lie and rest and seek for some resolution of peace out of the tangled web wherein her own willfulness had involved her.
“The best possible thing,” said Camilla Van Arsdale. “I’ll write your people that you are staying on for a visit.”