"You couldn’t do better," he went on. "I’m not selfish, not jealous. My wish is to see you happy, and you would be happy with Eddie. He’s a good man." He was, in fact, so worn out after his outburst that he felt compelled to get rid of Angelica, not only for the present, but forever. He didn’t recognize the feeling. He was conscious only of a great desire to dispose of her, which he fancied was concern for her welfare. "I want to see your life happy and blessed," he said. "I want to see you with your children about you, you with your beautiful Madonna face. I want always to be near you, but only to worship you. I will be your brother, your friend. I long to see this, Angelica!" "No," she said, "I don’t want to. It wouldn’t suit me. I’m not so crazy about getting married, anyway." "For me, Angelica! I beg you!" "No, not even for you. I don’t want to, and that’s enough. I’m young, Vincent. I have all my life before me. You needn’t worry about me." A mortal weariness assailed her. "I guess I’ll go now," she said. "I’m pretty tired. Good night, Vincent!" He kissed her solemnly on the brow and opened the door for her. She shut herself into her own room. "Oh, Gawd!" she sighed. "_Now_ what? This is getting too much for me. Can’t even think any more. I don’t know----” She undressed and got into bed, though the sky had grown gray in the east. She felt obliged to sleep, even if it were only for an hour; but before she closed her eyes---- "One thing’s certain," she said. "I’m going away from here, right away. I can’t stand any more of this!" CHAPTER FIFTEEN I This one idea remained with her when she got up from her brief sleep--this determination to get away. Except for this, she was drained quite dry of all ideas, all feelings. She was not poetic; she hadn’t the astounding variations of a poetic soul such as Vincent’s. She was not at all easy to move, and when she was thoroughly aroused--to pity, to love, to grief, to whatever it might be--it took a very long time for the tempest to calm. She wanted now simply to get away alone, where she might examine this turmoil in her heart. She packed her bag, put on her hat and coat, and went to Polly’s room. Polly was dressing in her very leisurely fashion, going to and fro in the room, and stopping now and then before the table where her coffee and rolls were laid. She was in petticoat and under-bodice, with her thin, sallow arms and neck bare and her black hair hanging about her face. She had a forlorn and jaded look--for which, however, Angelica had no eyes. "Mrs. Geraldine," she said, "I got to go. I want to go right away--to-day. I don’t feel well." "I’m very sorry, my dear! What’s the trouble?" "I’m just tired. I’ve just got to get away. I want to go home." "But if you’re not very well, wouldn’t you be more comfortable here?" "No. I want to go home. I--you know how it is, Mrs. Geraldine, when you feel you _just_ got to go home!" Indeed Polly knew!