Her breath came in jerks, responsive to the unsteady flutters of her heart. She made an effort for control; for the first time turned to him: “Mr. Chater, please go.”
Her words pricked every force that had him there—desire, obstinacy, wounded vanity.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“You happened to be passing—”
“Nothing of the kind,” he told her.
“You have come purposely?” One foothold that seemed safe was proving false.
“Of course. I tell you—why won't you believe me?—that I have been ashamed of myself ever since that night. At the first opportunity I have come straight to tell you so, I ought to be in the City. I could not rest until I had made my apology.”
“Well, you have made it—I don't mean to say that sharply. I think—I think it is very nice of you to be so anxious, and I freely accept your apology. But don't you see that you are harming me by staying here? I beg you to go.”
“How am I harming you? Am I so distasteful to you that you can't bear me near you?”
This was the personal note that of all her apprehensions had given Mary greatest alarm. “Surely you see that you are harming me—I mean hurting me—I mean, yes, getting me into trouble by staying like this with me. Mrs. Chater might have turned me off on Saturday—”