It was late—long after eleven—when there was a tapping on the door.
She started, listened rigidly.
Phil’s voice whispered from the hall: “Open your door just half an inch, Miss Golden. Something I wanted to say.”
Her pity for him made his pleading request like a command. She drew her kimono close and peeped out at him.
“I knew you were up,” he whispered; “saw the light under your door. I been so worried. I didn’t mean to shock you, or nothing, but if you feel I did mean to, I want to apologize. Gee! me, I couldn’t sleep one wink if I thought you was offended.”
“It’s all right—” she began.
“Say, come into the dining-room. Everybody gone to bed. I want to explain—gee! you gotta give me a chance to be good. If you don’t use no good influence over me, nobody never will, I guess.”
His whisper was full of masculine urgency, husky, bold. She shivered. She hesitated, did not answer.
“All right,” he mourned. “I don’t blame you none, but it’s pretty hard—”
“I’ll come just for a moment,” she said, and shut the door.