Almost before George realized it Betty was gone and the door was closed.
"Sylvia!"
Her low voice reached him from a large chair opposite the single, leaded, opaque window.
"I'm over here——"
Yes, there was fear in her enunciation, as if she groped through shadowy and hazardous places. It cautioned him. With a choked feeling, a racking effort after repression, he walked quietly around and stared down at her.
She looked up once quickly, then glanced away. He was grateful for her colour, but the fear was in her face, too, and the pride, as Betty had said, but a transformed pride that he couldn't quite understand. She lay back in the large chair, her head to one side resting against the protruding arm. Her eyes were bright with tears she had shed or wanted to shed.
"Please sit down."
The ring of exasperated contempt and challenge had gone from her voice. He hadn't known it could stir him so. He drew up a chair and sat close to her.
"You are not angry about what I did last night?" he whispered.
She shook her head.