"Oh!" The little word was significantly drawn out. "That's another pair of shoes!" it seemed to say.
She sat up straight, and let her feet down to the ground.
"To make me go back, I suppose!"
"You could hardly expect him not to have a shot at it—Cyril, I mean."
Her eyes had been turned up to Stephen. In lowering them to her letter again, she caught in transit Godfrey Ledstone's regard. For a second or two the encounter lasted. She swished her skirt round—over an ankle heedlessly exposed by her quick movement. Her glance fell to the letter. Godfrey's remained on her face—as well she knew.
"I must see Hobart, but I won't go back. I won't, Stephen."
"All right, my dear. Stay here—the longer, the better for us. Shall I wire Gaynor to come?"
"Will you?"
Stephen's last glance—considerably blurred by tobacco smoke—was rather recognisant of fact than charged with judgment. "I suppose all that will count," he reflected, as he went back once again to the house. It certainly counted. Godfrey Ledstone was doing nothing against the code. All the same he was introducing a complication into Winnie Maxon's problem. At the start freedom for her had a negative content—it was freedom from things—friction, wrangles, crushing. Was that all that freedom meant? Was not that making it an empty sterile thing?
"You'll be firm, Mrs. Maxon?"