"Why, what's the matter, Bert? What are you so frightened about? What's happened?"
Even his obviously dwindling affection was restimulated by her quite visible need of help.
"Oh, Clyde," she said at last, "I hardly know how to tell you. It's so terrible for me if it's so." Her voice, tense and yet low, was in itself a clear proof of her anguish and uncertainty.
"Why, what is it, Bert? Why don't you tell me?" he reiterated, briskly and yet cautiously, essaying an air of detached assurance which he could not quite manage in this instance. "What's wrong? What are you so excited about? You're all trembly."
Because of the fact that never before in all his life had he been confronted by any such predicament as this, it did not even now occur to him just what the true difficulty could be. At the same time, being rather estranged and hence embarrassed by his recent treatment of her, he was puzzled as to just what attitude to assume in a situation where obviously something was wrong. Being sensitive to conventional or moral stimuli as he still was, he could not quite achieve a discreditable thing, even where his own highest ambitions were involved, without a measure of regret or at least shame. Also he was so anxious to keep his dinner engagement and not to be further involved that his manner was impatient. It did not escape Roberta.
"You know, Clyde," she pleaded, both earnestly and eagerly, the very difficulty of her state encouraging her to be bold and demanding, "you said if anything went wrong you'd help me."
At once, because of those recent few and, as he now saw them, foolish visits to her room, on which occasions because of some remaining sentiment and desire on the part of both he had been betrayed into sporadic and decidedly unwise physical relations with her, he now realized what the difficulty was. And that it was a severe, compelling, dangerous difficulty, if it were true. Also that he was to blame and that here was a real predicament that must be overcome, and that quickly, unless a still greater danger was to be faced. Yet, simultaneously, his very recent and yet decidedly compelling indifference dictating, he was almost ready now to assume that this might be little more than a ruse or lovelorn device or bit of strategy intended to retain or reënlist his interest in spite of himself—a thought which he was only in part ready to harbor. Her manner was too dejected and despairing. And with the first dim realization of how disastrous such a complication as this might prove to be in his case, he began to be somewhat more alarmed than irritated. So much so that he exclaimed:
"Yes, but how do you know that there is anything wrong? You can't be sure so soon as all this, can you? How can you? You'll probably be all right to-morrow, won't you?" At the same time his voice was beginning to suggest the uncertainty that he felt.
"Oh, no, I don't think so, Clyde. I wish I did. It's two whole days, and it's never been that way before."
Her manner as she said this was so obviously dejected and self-commiserating that at once he was compelled to dismiss the thought of intrigue. At the same time, unwilling to face so discouraging a fact so soon, he added: "Oh, well, that might not mean anything, either. Girls go longer than two days, don't they?"