Such a remedy was not for the solid-minded man: he did think more about it, notwithstanding that many things happened; and his was not merely the harmless variety of conscience. Ora nestled lower on her cushions, sighed and closed her eyes; she did not treat him with ceremony, if any comfort lay in that. He rose, walked to the window, and looked out. He felt intolerably absurd, but the perception of his absurdity did not help him much. Again he complained of fate. This thing had come just when such things should cease to come, just also when another thing had begun to seem so pleasant, so satisfactory, so almost settled. He was ashamed of himself; as he stood there he regretted his midnight confidence to Ashley Mead a fortnight before. Since then he had made no confidences to Ashley; he had not told him how often he came to this house, nor how often he wished to come. Ora Pinsent's name had not been mentioned between them, although they had met several times over the initial business of launching their Commission.
He turned round and found her eyes on him. She began to laugh, sprang up, ran across the room, laid a hand lightly on his sleeve, and looked in his face, shaking her head with an air of determination.
"You must either go, or be a little more amusing," she said. "What's the matter? Oh, I know! You're in love!"
"I suppose so," he admitted with a grim smile.
"Not with me, though!"
"You're sure of that? Nothing would make you doubt it?"
"Well, I thought it was Irene Kilnorton," she answered; her eyes expressed interest and a little surprise.
"So it was; at least I thought so too," said Bowdon.
"Well, if you think so enough, it's all right," said Ora with a laugh.
"But I'm inclined to think differently now."