She looked down at the carpet, her fingers playing with her braid,
twisting and untwisting its strands. He stood waiting to close the door.
She said, without lifting her eyes--said in a quiet, expressionless way,
"I have killed your love?"
"I'll not trouble you any more," evaded he. And he laid his hand
significantly upon the knob.
"I don't understand," she murmured. Then, with a quick apologetic glance
at him, "But I'm very inconsiderate. You want to sleep. Good night."
"Good night," said he, beginning to close the door.
She impulsively stood close before him, lifted her small white face, as
if for a kiss. "Do you forgive me?" she asked. "I was foolish. I didn't
understand--till I went back. Then--nothing was the same. And I knew I
wasn't fitted for that life--and didn't really care for him--and----"
He kissed her on the brow. "Don't agitate yourself," said he. "And we
will never speak of this again."
She shrank as if he had struck her. Her head drooped, and her shoulders.
When she was clear of the door, he quietly closed it.