“I'm afraid not.”
“I've got to fight this out alone, and the less I see of you the better.” But his next words belied his intention. “And Wilson had better lookout. I'll be watching. If I see him playing any of his tricks around you—well, he'd better look out!”
That, as it turned out, was Joe's farewell. He had reached the breaking-point. He gave her a long look, blinked, and walked rapidly out to the Street. Some of the dignity of his retreat was lost by the fact that the cat followed him, close at his heels.
Sidney was hurt, greatly troubled. If this was love, she did not want it—this strange compound of suspicion and despair, injured pride and threats. Lovers in fiction were of two classes—the accepted ones, who loved and trusted, and the rejected ones, who took themselves away in despair, but at least took themselves away. The thought of a future with Joe always around a corner, watching her, obsessed her. She felt aggrieved, insulted. She even shed a tear or two, very surreptitiously; and then, being human and much upset, and the cat startling her by its sudden return and selfish advances, she shooed it off the veranda and set an imaginary dog after it. Whereupon, feeling somewhat better, she went in and locked the balcony window and proceeded upstairs.
Le Moyne's light was still going. The rest of the household slept. She paused outside the door.
“Are you sleepy?”—very softly.
There was a movement inside, the sound of a book put down. Then: “No, indeed.”
“I may not see you in the morning. I leave to-morrow.”
“Just a minute.”
From the sounds, she judged that he was putting on his shabby gray coat. The next moment he had opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.
“I believe you had forgotten!”
“I? Certainly not. I started downstairs a while ago, but you had a visitor.”
“Only Joe Drummond.”
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