From the look of him, he must have imagined her a vision. And she made no move to undeceive him. He was convinced of the reality of the moment by the puppy. Holding aside the frisking beast, he straightened and forced himself to speak. “You mustn’t stay here, Dolores.” His words, his frown, his harsh tone--all stabbed into the wound of her solitariness as she had not been stabbed when alone. She could not manage an answer, except to cross to the hall door. Then, just as her hand turned the knob---- “For God’s sake, don’t leave me--don’t go!” At her distressed hesitation, he added a jumble of words. “There is something I’ve been wanting to say to you--to offer--about your future. Forgive me if I seem abrupt or rude. I feel the strain of--of recent events. It might help to talk with someone who understands. Won’t you stay--a little while?” Dolores felt more hurt than when he had spoken first, but hurt for him. Knowing the steel control of the man, she wondered at his mood. She returned into the room and stood before him, one thought clear in her mind. So this, then, was what she had been awaiting all along--this need for companionship of John Cabot? Usually so punctilious about the courtesies, he remained seated, his knuckles whitening in his grip of the crumpled magazine. That he now avoided looking at her filled her with the equivocal sensations of hope and fear which had unsteadied her that night of the dinner. But she tried not to feel for herself. She wanted all she was to feel for him. She saw that he was making an effort to get himself in hand and wished that she might help him. Yet she hesitated to speak lest she sound some discordant note. “I thought it was only Jack I was lonely for--that sitting in his room, among his things---- But I was deluding myself. I know that now. The sight of you---- Well, it has not calmed me.” All too brief a glance he lifted to her startled eyes. “If I seem strange or--or incoherent---- Dolores, you never could imagine such loneliness as I’ve been suffering. Every night since I moved to the club, I’ve been obsessed with the desire to come here. I knew I shouldn’t trust myself. Last night I tramped the street until five in the morning to wear out the wish. But to-night it came back stronger than before. It has half crazed me--has worn me out. I--I am run down, I guess. I feel like the last half-second of an eight-day clock.” At his simile, the girl glanced toward the corner. The hour hand of the tall old time-piece was exactly where it had been, close to eleven. She realized why the silence had seemed so intense when she first had entered the room. Shocked, she leaned closer to John Cabot. “Jack’s clock,” she murmured. “I wound it only yesterday. It has stopped.” As he, too, turned and looked, his face reflected her superstitious tone. The quiet increased. Everything in their world seemed to have stopped.