"I mean to Constantine."
"Oh, well then, perhaps it was," she admitted, smiling. "But that's all consistent, isn't it? You couldn't trim your sails to suit the breeze even in a letter like that."
"Are you rebuking me? Are you contemptuous? What are you?" He leant back and looked at her, smiling.
"If my husband would do what you've done, he might live," she said.
Marchmont nodded gravely; it was easy to see the odd way in which his action fitted into the drama of her life.
"But we've no hills," she went on. "You leave London—all London means—to wander on hills, high glorious hills; he'd leave it for a villa, a small villa at a seaside place."
"Metaphors again?"
"It comes easier to talk in them sometimes. And I—I'm of my husband's way of thinking."
"I don't believe it," he said again, but looking at her now with a little touch of doubt.
"You'll never come back, will you?" she asked.