As suddenly as the mood of abandon had come it passed; incredulity, its successor, as well. In the space of seconds the miracle was wrought, 159 and another woman absolutely sat there looking forth from the brown eyes of Elice Gleason.
“Steve! I thought I was ready for anything after what you just told me, what you just asked. But this deliberate—insult.... Did you mean it, Steve, really; or are you merely acting?... Don’t look away; this means the world to you and me, and I want to be sure, now.... Did you mean it, Steve, the way you did it, deliberately? Tell me.”
“Mean it? Certainly. It’s important, what I asked, from an artist’s point of view. Either I was wrong or else reality is—overdone.... Repression’s the word, all critics agree, repression invariably.”
“Steve Armstrong! Stop! I won’t stand it. Listen. It’s unbelievable, but I must take you at your word—your own word. Do you mean exactly what you’ve said, and done?”
Again the moisture sprang to Armstrong’s face, but this time there was no attempt at procrastination.
“Yes, Elice,” he said, and looked her fair.
“Yes? Think. This is final.”
“Yes.”
An instant the look held; the brown eyes dropped. 160
“I repeat, then, you are released, free.” She sat very still. “Is there anything else you wish to say?”