As in a dream, Armstrong arose, obeying her command—as he always obeyed in small things.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he echoed dully. “I realize I’m only making matters worse by staying, only getting us farther apart.” He buttoned his coat to the chin and drew on his gloves lingeringly. “If I were to call to-morrow, though, isn’t there a chance that you would be different? Can’t I have even—hope?”
The girl said nothing, did not appear to hear. Subconsciously she was counting the seconds, almost with prayer; counting until she should be alone.
But still Armstrong dallied, killing those same seconds wilfully.
“Aren’t you going to offer me even hope, Elice?” he repeated. “I’ll be in—hell when I go, without even hope.”
It was the final straw, that prophetic suggestion, the snapping straw. With one gesture 319 of hopeless, impotent misery, of infinite appeal as well, the girl threw out her hand.
“Go,” she pleaded brokenly, “go quickly. There’s a limit to everything and with me that limit is reached.” She motioned again, and Steve went out into the night.