The little adventure, with its sentimental background, had just the flavour that his spirit had been asking, just what the evening lacked. A brief scene of reserved feeling, more hinted than said, a becoming word of sorrow, and so farewell! No harm in that, and, under the circumstances, less from Harry would be hardly decent.
Isobel did not seem minded even for so much. She came up to him with a quick resolute step. She wore a low-cut black gown, and a black lace scarf twisted round her neck. She bent her head slightly, saying, "Good-night, Mr. Harry."
He stepped up to her, holding out his hand, but she made no motion to take it.
"I've no key—I'll go in by the back door. It's sure to be open, because Fellowes is up, waiting for Mr. Wellgood."
"He won't be here for ever so long. Won't you give me just three minutes?"
The lamp over the hall door showed him her face; it was pale and tense, her lips were parted.
"I think I'd sooner go in at once."
"I want you to know that I didn't send that answer lightly. It—it wasn't easy to obey you."
"Please don't let us say a single word more about it. If you have any feeling, any consideration for me, you'll let me go at once."
The moment was a bad one for her too. She had spent an evening alone with bitter thoughts; she had strolled out in a miserable restlessness. Seeing the carriage pass, feeling sure that Harry was in it, she had first thought that she would hide herself till he had gone, then decided to try to reach the house before he had parted from Vivien. Her wavering landed her there at the one wrong minute.