"When they understand, they will."
"Perhaps. But, see here, you can't stay. There may be danger. It's awfully good of you to come. But you must get away."
She looked at him sidelong. In her coming she had been the new Esmé, the Esmé who was Norman Hale's most unselfish and unsparing worker, the Esmé who thought for others, all womanly. But, now that the strain had relaxed, she reverted, just a little, to her other self. It was, for the moment, the Great American Pumess who spoke:—
"Won't you even say you're glad to see me?"
"Glad!" The echo leaped to his lips and the fire to his eyes as the old unconquered longing and passion surged over him. "I don't think I've known what gladness is since that night at your house."
Her eyes faltered away from his. "I don't think I quite understand," she said weakly; then, with a change to quick resolution:—
"There is something I must tell you. You have a right to know it. It's about the paper. Will you come to see me to-morrow?"
"Yes. But go now. No! Wait!"
From without sounded a dull murmur pierced through with an occasional whoop, jubilant rather than threatening.
"Too late," said Hal quietly. "They're coming."