They had both forgotten—for it was weeks away—how Barbara had felt about the imaginary unknown lady.
That "almost" was, to Robert, the end of all things. He thought at once of Cary Patten. Pain and jealous madness struggled together in his breast, strangling him.
"Good-bye!" he said at last, finding his voice, and turning to the door. "I shall leave to-night!"
"Robert!" cried Barbara, sharply. "Come back at once!"
He paused near the door, half turned, as if compelled by mere civility, but showed no sign of obeying.
"Come back to me!" she commanded. And he, being a courteous gentleman, obeyed.
"What is it, lady?"
"What on earth do you mean by being so crazy?" she demanded.
No answer occurred to him as necessary. He looked at her inquiringly, his face very white, his eyes deep sunken, his lips straight and hard. Barbara began to regret that she had not managed in some other way. She certainly could not let him go. Yet she certainly did not love him enough to give up her freedom for him,—to sacrifice all the enchanting experience of which she had not yet begun to tire, to dismiss all the interesting men, whose homage was so sweet to her young, unsatiated vanity.
"Don't you know, Robert," she went on, beguilingly, "that I couldn't possibly get along without you? I don't love you, but I do love you to love me, you know. I couldn't bear to have you go away and forget me, and love some other woman,—some kind, sweet, beautiful woman who could love you and make you happy. I need you to love me. Though I know there is no earthly reason why you should, and I think you are a crazy goose to do it, and I believe you only think you do, anyhow!"