“You must not come to-morrow—I can't let you.”
“A week, then, Margaret?—a—a month?”
“I don't know—you must not stay.”
He waited a little, then walked slowly to the hall. When he had his coat nearly on she came to the doorway. He waited again, hat in hand.
“Good—good-night,” she said.
“Is that———”
She shook her head nervously, hurriedly, and he opened the door and went out.
And when he had gone, when his last step had died away in the still air, she sank down on the stairs and sobbed, trembling in the power of this passion. What had she done! What had she done! Her thoughts ranged madly. She thought of the three years of divergence; of his habits, of hers; of all the things, great and trivial, that bore on the question; she tried to remember what had happened this night, and could not. She only knew that this strange power had mastered her; and she was afraid of it and of him.