"Good-bye," she replied, with an ash-white face. They looked at one another for a second; and then, lifting his hat gravely, Mr. Dalrymple turned and walked away down the street, and Mr. Kingston gave his arm to his wife, and led her to her carriage. Poor Rachel! she did not ask herself what would happen next—she did not wonder nor care whether she was to be scolded or not. For a few bitter, lonely moments, she had no recognisable future.
Then she turned to her husband, who was fanning the fuel of his wrath in silence, laid her hand on his arm, and said softly, "Graham?"
"Well—what?" he inquired, roughly.
"Do not be angry. I am never going to see him again."
"It's to be hoped not," he snarled, "if you have any regard for your reputation. Standing up there with him, in that public way, for all Melbourne to see!"
"You would not have wished me to meet Mr. Dalrymple in any way that was not public," she said, drawing herself up. "And I should be very sorry to do anything that all Melbourne might not see."
The rain began to sweep down heavily, and he turned to put up the window nearest him with an energy that threatened destruction to the glass.
And he said no more about Mr. Dalrymple.
Disturbed as he was, he was greatly relieved that the meeting he had always dreaded was over, and had taken place so quietly; and poor as was his estimation of the abstract woman, he had the most implicit faith in his wife's sincerity.
When she told him that she had bidden her old lover a final farewell, he believed her; and, though the sight and thought of the man made him ferocious, he was quite aware that difficulties were adjusting themselves more satisfactorily than he could have expected.