She was shaking a little now, on his arm.

It bewildered him to think how his hunger for her could still obliterate all consciousness of time and place.
"Why didn't you write ?" she pleaded pitifully.
"I did write--a dozen times.

Then I telegraphed!" "Not a word came!" she cried.
"Then I wrote twice to London!" "And _those_ never came.

Oh, everything was against me!" she moaned.
"But how did you get here ?" he still demanded.
She did not answer his question.

Instead, she asked him: "Where did you send the Paris letters ?" "To 11 bis avenue Beaucourt." She groaned a little, impatiently.
"That was foolish--I wrote you that I was leaving there--that I _had_ to go!" "Not a line reached me!" He heard her little gasp of despair before she spoke.
"I was put out of there," she went on, hurriedly and evenly, yet with a _vibrata_ of passion in her crowded utterance.