“Yes, Elice,” said a voice at last. “I’ve found out that I don’t care for you any more.”
As before, the girl said nothing, never stirred.
“I shan’t try to defend myself, try to explain,” stumbled on the man. “I couldn’t if I would. The thing has simply come about—I wish to ask you to release me.”
“Steve!” Of a sudden the girl was on her feet, the forced composure of a moment ago in tatters, the tiny hands locked tight. “I can’t believe it, can’t credit it. I love you, Steve, in spite of all you’ve told me; more, because you need me more now.” The locked fingers opened. She came a step forward in mute appeal. “Tell me that you don’t mean it, that you’re merely acting, that, that—” As suddenly she halted. Her face hidden in her hands, she dropped back into the seat. “Forget, please,” she halted, “that I did that. I didn’t mean to. I—I—forget it.”
“Elice—dear!” Aroused beyond his purpose, his determination, the man sprang from his seat, his eyes ablaze, glorious. “Elice—”
“No, not pity! Never, a thousand times no! Leave me alone a minute. I release you, yes, 158 yes; but don’t come near me now. I’m hysterical and irresponsible. Don’t, please!”
Precisely where he stood Armstrong paused, looking down. After that first involuntary sound he had not spoken or come closer. He merely remained there, waiting, looking; and as he did so, though the room was far from close, drops of sweat gathered on his forehead and beneath his eyes. With a restless hand he brushed them away and sat down. Another minute passed, two perhaps; then suddenly, interrupting, incongruous, there sounded the strained rasp of his laugh.
“Elice,” followed a voice, “aren’t you through—nearly?” Again the laugh; grating, unmirthful. “I’ve done this sort of thing identically in novels several times, done it realistically, I thought; but it never took this long by minutes. Aren’t you almost through?”
Surprised out of herself the girl looked up, incredulous.
“Something must be wrong, art or reality, one or the other. I—I wonder—which was wrong, Elice?”