Cautiously, as if fearing to hurt him, she withdrew from his arm and pressed against the other side of the brougham. "Why didn't you stay?" he asked, stammering like a drunkard. "Weren't you comfortable?" She shook her head. He repeated the question several times. She maintained silence. She felt any word she might utter would entangle her still further. Then he clasped her hand, which hung down limply. "I mayn't," she whispered, extracting her hand from his. "And you mayn't, either." "Why mayn't we?" "You will reproach yourself dreadfully later when you recall you are responsible to him." "Whom?" he asked. "Whom? _Him._ Whom else? You always say you're nothing but his agent, and--" A laugh, a hoarse, guilty laugh, interrupted her. He had folded his hands across his knees, and he laughed and drew a deep breath and laughed again, as one who has rid himself of a wearisome burden. A horrid certainty faced her. "Then all that wasn't true?" she faltered, staring at him. "Nonsense, perfect nonsense," he cried. "He wrote me _once_, before he left for the United States. 'Look out for her. Don't let her go to the dogs. She's too good for them.' Nothing else and never again. There! Now you know it. Now I'm rid of it. I've had a hard enough time over it. But what could I do? I had begun so I had to go on. There was no use--" He jerked up the window and leaned against it panting. Lilly wanted to ask, "Why did you do it?" but was afraid to. She knew what was coming. One thing stood before her with horrible clearness: she was in his hands beyond rescue. She lived in his house, spent his money, saw the world with his eyes. She was what he had determined she should be: his courtesan, his creature. The river! She tore at the brougham door, and set her right foot on the step, but he pulled her back and shut the door again. "Be sensible," he commanded. "Keep your wits about you." She burst into a fit of weeping, piteous, harrowing, heartbreaking. She had not shed such tears since the days of her divorce. She saw nothing and heard nothing. Sometimes she seemed to catch the sound of his voice as from a great, great distance. But she did not understand what he said. Simply to cry, cry, cry, as if salvation lay in crying, as if fear and distress would flow away with her tears. The brougham came to a stand. She felt herself being lifted out. He carried the key in his pocket. Supported by him she stumbled up the steps and thought from time to time: "Why, I was going to throw myself into the river." He led her to the sofa and turned on the lights of the chandelier. Then he undid the buckle of her cloak and removed the veil from her hair. She lay there languidly, looking apathetically at the tablecloth. The bird awoke and peeped to her. "It's late," she heard Mr. Dehnicke say, "and the carriage is waiting. But I can't leave you this way. I must vindicate myself. I want you to know how everything happened."