“You are not going, my dear Angela?” He took her hand, speaking very quickly. “I haven’t seen you. Do stay.” Meeting his eyes where a shallow sincerity seemed to glitter over depths he could not show, Angela recovered herself and could again take up a weapon.
“I am afraid that I am not really wanted, my dear Maurice,” she said, standing between husband and wife, still holding Felicia’s hand as he held hers, smiling from one to the other, a brave, kind smile. “I am afraid that I am a quite unnecessary fourth here. Our old trio has another head. I had hoped that I might, as a friendly hangeron, not be in the way; but I am. I feel that I am.”
“Trio? Oh, you mean Geoffrey?” Maurice was perplexed, yet spoke with a gallant lightness—the concealing glitter emphasized, while Geoffrey, all placidity, queried—
“Was I ever one of a trio? That’s news to me.”
Angela turned her head to glance at him.
“So you will forsake me—even in the past? Well, I abdicate all claims.”
“But we don’t—we don’t, my dear Angela! We don’t abdicate our claims to you. It’s not a trio,” said Maurice, “it’s a circle—isn’t it, Felicia? Let us all join hands. Come in, Geoffrey.”
“No, no,” Angela softly echoed his laugh. “I will come again—and look at you all. But indeed I abdicate all my tiny claims. Remember me, my dear Mrs. Wynne, if I can ever be of any use.” She pressed Felicia’s hand and turned away. Maurice went with her into the hall. Her wrap lay there and he held it for her.
“You may trust me, Maurice, for ever,” she whispered, as she slid into it. She did not meet his glance of helpless confusion; but she knew that all glitter had left him.
Driving away in her carriage, she leaned her head back in the corner, where she shrank and burst into tears.