It will soon be dawn. I have written almost all night. Probably now I had better try to get some sleep.
She came to the door—hours ago. There was on her face that new passive quality; I can not define it exactly, even in my own thinking.
“Anthony,” she said, with choirs of suppressed music in her low voice, “would it be better, tomorrow you know, for us to...” She had to begin again. “Do you wish me to go away from you? You must tell me—not what you want, but what you believe is best.”
I could only look at her for a moment. I could n't think at all.
“Heloise dear,” I said finally, “I don't know what is best. But I know I can't let you go. Not yet. Not with everything uncertain, like this. We'll look up another hotel in the morning.”
She pursed her lips. Then, with a look of sober relief that she could not altogether control she slipped back into her own room. And I closed the shrunken door behind her, and hung my raincoat over the narrow opening that was left.