But Sylvia began in a nervous voice to attempt
an explanation: "Oh, Mrs. Fiske--I--you'll have to excuse me--I must
go home at once--I--I was just packing. I thought--if I hurried I
could make the eight-o'clock trolley back to La Chance, and you could
send my trunk after me." Her every faculty was so concentrated on the
single idea of flight--flight back to the safety of home, that she did
not think of the necessity of making an excuse, giving a reason for
her action. It seemed that it must be self-evident to the universe
that she could not stay another hour in that house.
Mrs. Fiske nodded. "Yes, I'll send your trunk after you," she said.
She drew a long breath, almost audible, and looked down at the fire on
the hearth. Sylvia came up close to her, looking into her lusterless
eyes with deep entreaty. "And, Mrs. Fiske, _would_ you mind not
telling any one I'm going, until I'm gone--_nobody_ at all! It's
because--I--you could say I didn't feel well enough to come down to
dinner. I--if you--and say I don't want any dinner up here either!"
"Won't you be afraid to go down through the grounds to the trolley
alone, at night?" asked Mrs. Fiske, without looking at her.
"Everybody will be at dinner, won't they?" asked Sylvia.
Mrs. Fiske nodded, her eyes on the floor.
Upon which, "Oh no, I won't be afraid!" cried Sylvia.
Her hostess turned to the door.
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