"Come, come. Of course you are bruised, you are such a sensitive
little plant, but you know what women are, and more especially that
old woman. But even she cannot find much to gossip about in the fact
that you were receiving an afternoon caller."

"It--is--is--n't--only that!"

"What, then?"

"I--I'll be back in a moment."

She ran into her bedroom, and Masters took a batch of proofs from
his pocket and deliberately read them during the ten minutes of her
absence. When she returned she had bathed her eyes, and looked quite
composed. In truth she had taken sal volatile, and if despair was
still in her soul her nerves no longer jangled.

He rose to hand her a chair, but she shook her head and walked over
to the window, then returned and stood by the table, leaning on it as
if to steady herself.

"Shall I get you a glass of port wine?"

"No; more than one goes to my head."

He threw the proofs on the table and retreated to the hearth-rug.

"I suppose this means that you must not come here any more?"