“You told me that also.”
Armstrong was observing her steadily.
“You are in the new one too,” he said; “the one I’ve been working on—but which will never be completed now. You’ve killed the girl there too, Elice.”
“Steve!” The hands had gone swiftly to the girl’s ears, covered them completely. “I shan’t listen. This is worse than folly. It’s madness.”
“I can’t help it,” monotonously. “It’s myself. I can’t avoid being myself.”
“Nor I myself, Steve,” very gently. “Can’t you realize that?”
The man passed his hand across his eyes as though brushing away something tangible.
“No, I can’t realize anything,” he said dully, “except that I love you—and have lost. This and that the world is dead—and I am alone in it.”
For the second time the girl arose, and even yet quite steadily. But at last her lips were trembling.
“I think you had better go now,” she requested. 318 “I can’t stand this much longer; and besides, to keep it up would do no good that I can see. To-morrow is Saturday, and if you still feel there is anything you must say to me I shall be at home all day. But to-night—please go now.”