No one spoke, or moved. The iron face of Mrs. Boatwright confronted his.
Very gently, fighting his deepest desire, fighting, it seemed, life itself, he tried to disentangle his fingers from Betty's.
But hers gripped the more tightly. There was a silence.
Then Betty whispered—faintly, yet not caring who might hear:
“I can't let you go.”
“You must, dear.”
“Then I can't stay here. Will you take me with you?”
He found this impossible to answer.
“It won't take me long. Just a few things in a bag.” And she started away.
Mrs. Boatwright made an effort to block her, but Betty, without another sound, slipped by and out of the room and ran up the stairs.