“Don’t tell me if you’d rather not,” I answered gently.
“Oh, but I must,” she insisted. “I must make you understand or I don’t know what you will think. You see, when I was a young girl I was very nervous. It is a failing that takes strange forms sometimes, as you probably know. With me it took the form of wanting to—wanting to—take—other people’s things—sometimes.” She dropped her eyes.
“Kleptomania?” I ventured.
She nodded. “I thought I had conquered it entirely,” she went on. “But finding myself alone, in here—the apartment so silent—and—and everything—brought it back, I’m afraid. So you found me picking over the things on your desk, hardly knowing what I did. But—I didn’t take anything!” she concluded piteously.
“My dear lady,” I answered heartily, “I don’t care whether you did or not. You’re welcome to anything there is there,” I finished, laughing.
She drew a long breath at that, looking at me closely the while, however. “Oh—you are—good to me!” she breathed. “But I knew that you would be.” She rose slowly to her feet and looked up into my face. “May I—may I go—now?” she finished pathetically.
“But of course,” I answered, “if you must. But why go so soon? You haven’t told me why you came yet.”
She walked slowly toward the door into the hall, and I followed a step or so behind her. But she did not answer until she had reached the front door and I had opened it for her. Her head was bent. “Can’t you guess?” she murmured.
I took her hand gently and pressed it. “Then you must not go,” I urged. “Come back!”
But she drew her hand away. “No, not now. You frightened me. I——”