She hurried to the adjoining chamber to get her wraps, and Lester, who had even yet no clear conception of what it all meant, followed her stubbornly to the door.
“See here,” he exclaimed in his vigorous, brutal way, “you’re not acting right. What’s the matter with you? I want to know.”
He stood in the doorway, his whole frame exhibiting the pugnacity and settled determination of a man who is bound to be obeyed. Jennie, troubled and driven to bay, turned at last.
“It’s my child, Lester,” she exclaimed. “It’s dying. I haven’t time to talk. Oh, please don’t stop me. I’ll tell you everything when I come back.”
“Your child!” he exclaimed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I couldn’t help it,” she returned. “I was afraid—I should have told you long ago. I meant to only—only—Oh, let me go now, and I’ll tell you all when I come back!”
He stared at her in amazement; then he stepped aside, unwilling to force her any further for the present. “Well, go ahead,” he said quietly. “Don’t you want some one to go along with you?”
“No,” she replied. “Mrs. Olsen is right here. I’ll go with her.”
She hurried forth, white-faced, and he stood there, pondering. Could this be the woman he had thought he knew? Why, she had been deceiving him for years. Jennie! The white-faced! The simple!
He choked a little as he muttered: