"Call it escape, if you wish."
"From me?"
"Or from myself. Wouldn't you like to think that I'm afraid of you?"
"I shouldn't like to think that you're afraid of anything."
"I'm not." But her tone was that of the defiance which seeks to
encourage itself.
"I'd call it a desertion," he said steadily.
"Oh, no! You're secure. You need nothing but what you've got. Power,
reputation, position, success. What more can heart desire?" she taunted.
"You."
She quivered under the blunt word, but rallied to say lightly: "Six
months isn't long. Though I may stretch it to a year."
"It's too long for endurance."
"Oh, you'll do very well without me, Ban."
"Shall I? When am I to see you again before you go?"
Her raised eyebrows were like an affront. "Are we to see each other
again? Of course, it would be polite of you to come to the train."
There was a controlled and dangerous gravity in his next question. "Io,
have we quarreled?"
"How absurd! Of course not."
"Then--"
"If you knew how I dislike fruitless explanations!"
He rose at once. Io's strong and beautiful hands, which had been lying
in her lap, suddenly interlocked, clenching close together. But her face
disclosed nothing. The virtuoso, who had been hopefully hovering in the
offing, bore down to take the vacated chair.
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