“You won’t be cross?”
“What right have I to be cross?”
“Well, there was a sufficient reason why I went in alone.”
“What?”
“Some one was waiting for me here.”
If she had thrust a knife into me she would not have hurt me more. I rose, and holding out my hand, “Goodbye,” said I.
“I knew you would be cross,” she said; “men are frantic to know what is certain to give them pain.”
“But I assure you,” I added coldly, as if wishing to prove how completely I was cured of my passion, “I assure you that I am not cross. It was quite natural that someone should be waiting for you, just as it is quite natural that I should go from here at three in the morning.”
“Have you, too, someone waiting for you?”
“No, but I must go.”