“Yes....”
She left him and crossed to the far window.
“Would you not have me come to you again—at all?”
She could not hold the sentence, and her answer. The room was terrible. It seemed filled with presences that suffocated her—that cared nothing for her. All day they had inspired her to speak and answer—and now they wanted her death. She moved to the ’cello. Her hands fluttered along the strings—old, familiar ways—but making hardly a sound.... If she did not soon speak, he would come to her. She would fail again—the touch of him, and she would fail.
“Betty, is there never to be—the fountain at evening?”
“You know—you know—” she cried out. Words stuck after that. She had not a thought to drive them.
He arose.
“Don’t,” she implored. “Don’t come to me! I cannot bear it.”
... It was his final rebellion.
“I am not a preparer of the way. I have not a message. I am sick of the thought. I am just a man—and I love you!”