"But I don’t know it," she cried; but at the same breath she knew that it was so. But this knowledge only roused in her the spirit to combat, to remit, to put away from her the threatening obstacle. "Nonsense. Why didn’t you let me go? You wouldn’t; you brought me back; you couldn’t help it—and I came. I would have come if you had called me. I’ve said all that you say myself—what good did it do me? Here I am!" "Well, then—yes, we may love each other," she said desperately. "I don’t know. I cannot reason it out—it may be so, perhaps—but even then? Teddy, it can’t go on. Don’t you see how wicked it would be—how wrong? Your wife can’t be on the stage, and I can’t give it up. It’s everything—it’s been my whole life. We must be strong—we must stop it. It’s absurd—it’s wrong." She came to him, seized with the two contrary impulses: an instinctive revolt, a desire to force him from her life, and something just as instinctive and irresistible that drew her back to him; and at the moment she said the most firmly, "No, no, it’s absurd, it’s wrong," she put out her hand and caught her fingers in his coat collar, just behind his ear, under the masses of his hair. He caught her to him, wrapping his arms around her; she continued to protest but, without resisting, her head dropped on his shoulder, her eyes closed, her lips breathlessly open. All at once from the hall came the sound of a key in the latch. They disengaged themselves hurriedly, arranging their disordered hair, standing ridiculously apart. From the antechamber came the voice of Miss Tilbury, the chaperon, discreetly remaining without: "Nan, dear, Mr. Hargrave is below. He has come for his manuscript." "But I’m not at home," she said in a muffled voice. "You ought to send it down to him, really." "Mr. Beecher is here—aren’t you coming in?" "In a moment." The steps died out going to the back. Beecher, who had looked at the clock, uttered an exclamation. She came to him quickly, with the motions of the alert feline, and seizing his wrist said quickly: "Listen, Teddy, I will not hold you to what has happened. We are out of our senses, you and I. We are crazy—crazy. You must not see me for a while—two days at least—until we know what we are doing. Go, now, please—" Then, suddenly remembering that the same Hargrave had been the innocent cause of a little pain to him, she went quickly to the table and took up the offending play, and with that fine instinct of a woman to give even the smallest revenge to the man she loves, said: "Take this. Give it to Hargrave yourself. Say I cannot see him." "I shall see you tomorrow." "No, no; but telephone tonight." She listened a moment, her ear toward the hall like a child, and then sprang into his arms, and this time it seemed to him that it was she, not he, who dominated the embrace. *CHAPTER XXIII*