Anne. From the way you acted before you went away I thought you, yourself, would want to see me first of all.
Harold. Before I went away? What do you mean?
Anne. You know well enough what I mean. The parties those last weeks—the theater we went to—the beautiful flowers you sent Mother—the letter—
Harold. But—but—why, I was going away. You and your people had been awfully nice to me, a perfect stranger in town. I was simply trying to do the decent thing. Good Lord! You don't mean to say you thought—
Anne [watching him very closely]. Yes, it's true, I thought—and every one else thought—I've been waiting these two years for you to come back.
[She drops her face into her hands. Her shoulders shake.]
Harold [jumping up]. Great Heavens! I never imagined—Why, Miss Carey, I—oh, I'm terribly sorry! [She continues to sob.] Please don't do that—please! I'd better go away—I'll clear out—I'll go straight off to India—I'll never bother you again.
[He seized his hat, and is making, in a bewildered way, for the door, when she intercepts him.]
Anne. No. You mustn't go away!
Harold. But what can I do?