'No,' he replied in the same steady, even tone, 'nothing. You had better not keep them waiting, these grand people, any longer. They are not used to it, and they don't like it.'
'Let them wait, and if they don't like it they can go away,' she answered, with unwonted sharpness. 'I want to say, Walter, that if I could have stayed here, I would. I would rather be here than anywhere. It once seemed very dreadful to me, but now I love it. But though I am going away, I will come to see you very often, very often indeed.'
'Don't come,' he answered sharply. 'Don't come at all.'
A vague terror gathered in her eyes, and her mouth trembled.
'Now you are unkind, Walter, unkind and unreasonable. But men are often unreasonable, so I will forgive you. If I may not come here, will you promise to come to Bellairs Crescent and see me?'
Then Walter flung up his head and laughed, that laugh which always stabbed Gladys.
'To have the door slammed in my face by a footman or a smart servant? No, thank you.'
'Very well. Good-bye. If you cast me off, Walter, I can't help it. Good-bye, and God bless you. I hope I shall see you sometimes, and if not, I shall try to bear it, only it is very hard.'
She was a woman in keenness of feeling, a very child in guilelessness. She could not hide her pain.
Then Walter, feeling it all so keenly, and hating himself with a mortal hatred for his savage candour, condescended to make an explanation.