Her voice was tense. "If you are not telling me the truth, I'll never forgive you."
"I am telling it. You ought to know it. You are too wonderful to waste thought on a man who doesn't care for you, Sally."
She swept past him out into the moonlight. He helped her into the car, and she sat silent until they reached Round Hill. Then, as she went up the steps with him, she said, "If I find you were right, I'll say I'm sorry."
An hour later, Hildegarde, propped up on her pillows, was writing a letter, when Sally came into the room, clothed picturesquely in a Japanese robe of clear red sprinkled with small gold flowers. The red of the gown reflected the red of Sally's cheeks.
Hildegarde, surveying her, asked anxiously: "Is your arm hurting? You look feverish."
Sally, at the foot of the bed, was tense. "I came to ask you a question. Did Merry want to get you out of the fire before he got me?"
"Sally. . . ."
"Don't try to save my feelings. I've got to know."
"Well, yes. He did."
Sally's small hands clung to the bed-post. "What a little fool I've been!"
For a moment she stood like a small frozen statue. "Lend me your pen, Hildegarde."
She wrote three words on a sheet of paper, folded it, and gave the pen back to Hildegarde.
"That's that," she said.
"That's what, Sally?"
"I am going," said Sally, "to walk in the wood."
